I Don't Want to Jump In (Unless This Music's Thumping)
by Mistiec
Summary: Years after they were roommates in a cold loft in New York, Broadway Actress Rachel Berry and Superstar DJ Santana Lopez reconnect on the other end of the success spectrum.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: I Don't Want to Jump In (Unless This Music's Thumping) (1/3)**

**Author: Misty Flores **

Pairing: Rachel/Santana, implied Quinn/Santana

Teaser: Years after they were roommates in a cold loft in New York, Broadway Rachel Berry and Superstar DJ Santana Lopez reconnect on the other end of the success spectrum.

Spoilers: Through S4 of Glee

Rating: M

Note: For the Santana Anthology. Sorry I missed the deadline! Title is taken from Cake's 'Love You Madly'. Also, a Glee Girls Smut Meme fill.

Also I really REALLY didn't want to post this as a WIP, but honestly it's a three chapter story and it's been my primary focus to get it done, so I figured I'd at least post the start of it so it wouldn't any later. I apologize for the lateness of the other stories, honestly, there just hasn't been time, but they're by no means forgotten and I'll update them all when this story is done posting.

* * *

**PROLOGUE **

_Nothing Really Matters_

_But the Beat_

- David Guetta, Nothing Really Matters

* * *

It's not until her second year living in New York that Santana discovers people are like songs.

She takes an extension course at NYADA called music theory and composition. It's just a random class and she doesn't really get why she takes it at first, except that's she's fucking tired of auditioning and being told she's not 'black' enough or 'latin' enough or 'white' enough for anything except Skanky Bitch #5.

Living with the music nerds must have rubbed off. It's all that mash-up bullshit that Mr. Schue talked about, but she somehow gets it in a way she didn't before: how music ebbs and flows, how beats are constructed, how notes are built together in such a way that it can suck the soul right out of a person and put them back together again.

The class comes with a free copy of Ableton Live, cause the teacher is some sort of aging hipster lesbian who used to DJ, and that's how Santana starts screwing around with mixing songs and matching beats.

It turns out she's really fucking good at it.

She thinks it's because she gets it. Every song has a soul, and there are angry songs and happy songs and songs that exist for no other reason but to get a body moving to an insane refrain.

She's good at music like she's good at sex, and it becomes like a drug to her, because her Music Orgasm is fucking amazing, and only one girl has ever come close to making her feel that way. But Brittany's been swallowed up by MIT, being hailed as the new Albert Einstein and coming up with equations that make professors nearly three times her age swoon with adoration. And though Santana's proud (finally, Brittany's being seen as the genius that Santana has always known she is) it means Brittany has bigger dreams and aspirations and has no time for love.

So Santana focuses on the music and at the end of the semester, she's somehow slept with her aging hipster lesbian teacher and landed a gig at a local dive bar, fucking around with songs and mashing them together into non-stop orgasmic beats.

It's the music. It infects her. It takes her over. The pulse scorches her, digs into her bloodstream and pumps through her body. Nothing else really seems to matter.

Nothing else should matter, anyway. The world has moved on. Her friends have moved on. Rachel didn't get _Funny Girl_, but she made enough of an impression on the show's producers than she was brought in to become the new Cinderella in a rebooted version of the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical classic. Workshops started in San Francisco not long after, and then Rachel just kinda… left.

It's funny because Santana never pegged Rachel to be the one to leave them all first.

Kurt drops out of NYADA in the second year when he rediscovers his love of fashion, thanks in large part to Isabelle, who sees so much promise in him and never really lets him go. He's offered a too-good-to-be-true opening as a stylist for _Vogue Spain_, and then he's gone too.

Santana's left with a loft full of memories of friends she considered family and not really much else.

So she keeps her head down. She lives her life on stage and in the corner of her dark room, graduating from speakers to headphones and futzing with turntables and her Macbook.

Things start to happen. In six months she's got a regular gig mixing Saturday nights at this hot club in Manhattan called 'Sheik'.

In a year, one of her mixes that she's uploaded online gets a ton of club play, then radio play, and it lands her a profile on the online version of _Rolling Stone_.

In another few months, she's landed a record deal and a featured article in the print version. She's got half a million followers on Spotify, been to four different continents and almost never sees the daylight. In Miami, Steven Soderbergh sees her mixing at a party for P!NK and decides he likes her look. He writes a part for her in his next thriller, this film noir send up where she plays a vamp in a red dress who slinks on a piano like a real life Jessica Rabbit. Critics and fans alike are surprised as hell when they realize she can sing.

Soderbergh likes her so much he decides to star her in her own film – a _Magic Mike_-style 'fictionalized' view of a superstar DJ with international locales, hot women, and the gorgeous girl-DJ with killer abs and an even better rack, who is just a lonely puppy looking for something real in a field of shallow. Soderbergh is still on a kick for adding in musical acts so the character moonlights as a burlesque dancer before she gets her big break. Santana's agent jokingly dubs it _Magic Mike 3_.

Critics and fans aren't surprised she can dance, but they are oddly stunned when they realize she can actually act.

She's never going to be Julia Roberts or Meryl Streep, and Santana still prefers her tables and her Mac to the long hours on a movie set, but it sells her music and she gets fame.

She also gets notoriety, because she's an out lesbian and somewhere along the way she's gotten a tattoo or two, and a reputation for being as good at sex as she is at music. So women tend to throw themselves at her, either eager for a good fuck or a quick scandal to land in a tabloid somewhere.

They use her the way she used boys when she was in high school, and privately, it rips her to shreds, because fuck her reputation, what made her the happiest, what made her WHOLE, was when she was in a long-term, monogamous high school relationship with a girl who was meant to be the love of her life.

But no one knows that. It doesn't vibe with this Super Star DJ – slash- Actress mystique. She gets VIP lists and paparazzi and a reputation and lots of meaningless sex with some seriously gorgeous women. That's what the fame gets her.

That's what the music earns her.

So she's still got nothing really except a bunch of memories, and she's still lonely but this music?

It still feels like home.

* * *

**PART 01.**

_All the things I know right now_

_If I only knew back then_

- David Guetta, No Getting Over You

* * *

If one isn't careful, the magic of Hollywood can quite easily overwhelm someone to the point where reality will begin to fade away, and then there is no ground to stand on. It's then that a person drowns, lost in lights and fame and flashes and drugs.

The thick plastic she's standing on, transparent and placed over the massive pool to serve as a dance floor, seems to mock her with that very fact. It creates the illusion that they're dancing on air. But they're not, and any minute this transparent floor can crack underneath them, leaving them all to slip into the deep depths of this expensive salt-water pool.

It's an odd thing to be contemplating at a party such as this, and Rachel herself wonders why she's thinking it at all. She's not drunk; not even tipsy. This is an A-list party, and though Rachel is definitely NOT A-list (she's reminded of that on a daily basis), she's lucky enough that their A-list host is a fan of her Broadway pipes, and offered the invitation.

Rachel attends these parties for the connections she can make. She knows better than to let her clingy, insecure, gropey drunk self make an appearance.

She may be the only one. She has only just arrived (shooting on the primetime show she's guesting on went late), but the crowd that's currently writhing and grinding to the pulsing beats of the music that blare through the speakers have all but lost control, and though Rachel suspects that a part of that has to do with the extremely competent mix of music that's being blasted so loudly her teeth shake, she knows it's not the only reason.

Hollywood is super predictable when it comes to its dependence on drugs and alcohol to make the fantasy seem just a little more real.

Maybe that's what's so depressing about all this. It feels like this secret that they're all in on, and yet no one will say anything, because they're all so desperate to sell this image of perfection and bliss.

Someone steps on her heel and the sharp stab of pain breaks her out of her surly thoughts. The culprit, a little slip of a girl who would look fifteen if not for the slather of makeup that's creamed across her face, barely notices her and just continues her sexual gyrating against another girl who is wearing even LESS. This is clearly for the benefit of the oddly familiar handsome stud swaying beside them, one hand on each ass, a smirk on his famous face.

He catches Rachel watching and offers a lecherous wink.

Disgusted, Rachel turns away. She hobbles her way through the dancing mass, doing her best to pick her path toward the only slightly less crowded deck without spilling her wine. She doesn't quite succeed and ends up being jostled by a stray elbow, splashing the liquid over her toes. It seeps into her thousand dollar pumps and a bad mood gets even worse. When she finally reaches the edge of the deck, she pulls out her phone and scribbles out a text to her absentee boyfriend that pretty much threatens to withhold sex for a month the next time he ditches her and leaves her to attend one of these things alone.

He doesn't respond, but Rachel doesn't really expect him to. Troy can be as self-absorbed as the rest of the pretty-boy actors in his age group.

The only place on this patio that has even the slightest bit of standing room is the spot right next to where the DJ booth has been set up, with these massively huge speakers that thump their bass so loud Rachel knows she'll be half deaf for the next two days. Rachel quickly regrets her decision to stand there when a whine on the speaker screeches so loudly that Rachel actively winces.

"Wassup, bitches!" Drew squeals into her microphone, half drunk and obviously super happy about it. From this angle she can barely see the actress, but she can certainly hear her, as well as the guests that roar in reaction to her enthusiastic greeting. "You assholes better be having fun at my birthday party!" Rachel shakes her head and places her half-empty wine glass on the tray of a nearby passing waiter, grabbing a few cocktail napkins in the process. Drew Barrymore is actually amazing considering she's been in Hollywood since birth, but does every sentence _have_ to end in an exclamation point? "Now I know this is my party, but I gotta say, the best gift I got tonight was the fact that my hubby managed to snag my favorite superhot DJ to mix tonight..." Drew pauses for dramatic effect and Rachel is too busy trying to sop up some of the liquid around her toes to wonder who the big celebrity DJ is. "Can I get a spotlight over here?!" Obviously, it's someone impressive spinning, because there's suddenly so many gasps and girlie squeals Rachel wonders seriously if Justin Bieber has decided on a new career path. "Calm down ladies, I know you're already wet, but this girl is more than just her fabulous rack! Let's give it up for the super talented Santana Lopez! She's been spinning these hot tracks for you all night!"

Rachel's head whips up so quickly, she nearly loses her balance and has to actively reach out to a nearby party goer to steady herself before she crashes face first on the concrete.

She yelps loudly, and apparently when one does that at a crowded party and nearly bowls over a few people over like a row of pins, it gains attention.

"Holy shit, Berry?!" she hears a very familiar voice gasp into Drew's microphone. "Is that you?!"

And yes, it certainly is her former roommate, Glee Club rival, and quite possibly one of her best friends, Santana Lopez, who is staring down at her with that still-familiar-after-all-this-time half-astounded, half-disgusted expression.

Rachel regains her balance, and does the only thing she can do in a circumstance like this. She straightens, and with as much dignity as she can muster, waves with one hand. "Hi, Santana," she breathes.

The very last thing she expects this superstar DJ to do is to drop the microphone, nearly vault over the elevated mixing table, shove her way through the crowd and plow into her, wrapping arms around her in such a furious embrace it nearly sends Rachel sprawling all over again.

But that's exactly what Santana does, and when the shock wears off, Rachel finds herself clinging back just as tightly. Her vision goes blurry with emotion, and maybe it's because Rachel's had a really crappy night or maybe it's because Santana's always had this habit of dismantling her with her unexpected tenderness, but Rachel finds there's no more room for self-pity or bad moods.

God, she missed her.

* * *

In reality, it's kinda inexcusable that they lost touch the way they did. This is Santana, the woman who, for at least a year, was one of Rachel's two best friends. And though sometimes she likes to qualify that by admitting that it started due to circumstance more than an actual genuine connection, she knows that those days and nights in a Chelsea loft were spent with someone she once considered family.

It feels like so long ago, such a departure from who she is now, and Rachel wonders if it's the same for Santana. Rachel just can't stop STARING at this gorgeous woman, hungrily looking for traces of the Santana that she still thinks of as HER Santana.

Santana's mouth is still plump and full, but now her tongue pokes out the corner, a sign of concentration, as her friend offers her a wink and keeps the large headphones planted against one ear, futzing with dials and knobs and strokes of her keyboard that whip through a program, selecting the upcoming tracks that will meld in perfectly to the one playing now.

"Gimme a sec," she mouths, and Rachel just nods, content for the moment to just sit in the corner of this booth on a plastic crate that is used to carry a box of Santana's scratch records. Apparently she's 'old school' about some techniques.

Rachel has no idea what that means, but she figures is has to do with the way Santana's slender fingers handle the black record, bobbing her head to the music and then slipping two digits up and down against it, creating a stattaco that sends a shiver up Rachel's spine.

She of course knows of Santana's success. She'd have to be living under a rock not to, but honestly, out of all the ways Santana could find the fame she so desperately wanted, Rachel would have never predicted this path for her. Still, Rachel finds that it suits her.

She remembers quite vividly now, when Santana came home from that first music class just days before she got that fateful call for Cinderella, complaining about the crazy teacher she swore was a lesbian and the software she had to learn.

There's something about seeing an older Santana, inked up with a couple small but prominent tattoos that stand out proudly on her biceps and shoulder thanks to the fitted tank top that shows off Santana's still ridiculously toned body to full advantage, looking so at home surrounded by this block of machinery that is just… satisfying.

As lost as Santana used to be, searching for her dream, that's how at home she looks in this booth.

Dark eyes catch hers, and Rachel finds herself smiling nervously when Santana's lips curve into a mischievous smirk that is all too familiar.

"What?" she asks, immediately suspicious, because that flash in those eyes means something.

Santana crooks her head. "Come here," she says, in a tone that would be sweet if Santana wasn't nearly shouting because this is a party and the Pitbull song that Santana is currently remixing is _loud_.

It's really weird, how easily Rachel blushes when Santana's hand reaches out. She attributes it to the giddy emotion that comes with best friends reuniting, but she's fully aware of how it looks to the Santana Groupies that are gathered just under the DJ booth, watching their every move and just waiting for the moment Santana decides to take a break and step out of the protected box.

Seriously, if looks could kill.

Still, Rachel's no novice. More than a year as Santana's roommate subjected Rachel to more than her share of jealous girls who saw her as a threat for her lesbian roommate's affections, and so Rachel doesn't bother to do anything other than adjust her short skirt and allow that strong hand to pull her up and into Santana's own space.

Santana puts her between her and her turntables, and Rachel's breath catches unexpectedly when strong hands palm her hips. She feels Santana's still tight body press in behind her and is momentarily glad Santana can't see her expression when she bites down on her lower lip in reaction.

Santana's mouth hovers over her ear, intimate and lower than Rachel's used to hearing when she says as quietly as she can manage, "Wanna learn how to scratch?"

Rachel has no idea what that means, but this is the woman who once taught Rachel how to execute perfect booty shake during a particularly rowdy birthday party at the Coyote Ugly. The feeling is as thrilling now as it was back then. Honestly, it's even better, because Rachel discovers as she inhales that she recognizes Santana's smell, the way her perfume mixes with the light musk of her human scent. It's another gentle reminder that she's reconnecting with an old friend, one who is just as happy to see her.

It's exhilarating. With a smile, Rachel nods.

Santana's fingers press in once more against her, almost like an affectionate squeeze, before one of Rachel's palms is being lifted and with a careful, gentle touch, placed reverently against Santana's board, near the spinning record that nearly vibrates with the intensity of the song. "Remember how you taught me about breath control?" she hears that velvety voice say. Santana stays so close that her breath causes a ticklish shudder against Rachel's sensitive lobe. She swallows hard and nods, and determinedly keeps her eyes trained on the complicated looking mixing board and the revolving LP. "It's kind of like the same thing," Santana says. "Close your eyes."

With a loaded inhalation, Rachel obeys. She's learned to trust Santana years ago.

A moment later, those large headphones are being carefully placed over her ears, shutting Rachel out to everything but the music that flows through the wires, vibrating her ear drums.

Rachel sucks in an intense breath. The vibration seems to come from within her now. She feels Santana press in closer behind her, until she's flush against Rachel; hips to ass, breasts to back. Rachel registers the sensitive flutter in her stomach as Santana's fingers trail lightly against her forearm, a tingling journey up her skin until she feels a warm palm settling over her own, fingers curling over her wrist and lifting just enough to hover in the air.

Possessive fingers spread against her abdomen. Rachel feels her muscles contract underneath the touch. Santana's cheek slides against hers as she mimics her posture intimately.

There's a loaded moment, and then suddenly the fingers that are holding her own so reverently lower and Rachel's fingers touch spinning vinyl. The world stops.

Santana guides her. Rachel's not being touched as much as being used as a puppet, but … God… it doesn't matter.

Overcome, Rachel can only allow it, inhaling sharply as she registers the way the beat jumps and skids, responding to their combined touch the way a woman would respond to a lover.

It's...

Rachel's smile widens and her eyes remained purposely closed, because as her fingers move and Santana scratches out this perfect mix that bleeds into the song and deepens it, makes it better, she finds herself discovering music in a way she's never experienced.

God... how has she ever-

They're rushing forward to some unseen cliff, with the bass so loud it pounds the booth and vibrates deep inside of her.

She laughs breathlessly, eyes opening as the music races toward this incredible climax. A hitch, a breath, and suddenly their joined hands skid again and it breaks; the beat starts thumping again. Santana's fingers lift, and Rachel watches the crowd, this massive, living body, roar with the excitement, infected by this beat that came from their combined touch.

Rachel's heart stampedes with them. Her eyes glisten, and her groin aches and she pants, because she FEELS the music in a way she hasn't felt it in years.

Santana's fingers unclasp from her own. Rachel doesn't move. She holds her breath as Santana reaches up to gently pry the large expensive headphones off her. There's not much room in this booth, but there's just enough for Santana to take a half step back.

Rachel's head turns immediately, aware of the loss of contact and missing it intensely. With wild eyes, she takes in the beautiful, shy expression, the way Santana half-smirks at her. She's just shown Rachel this gorgeous piece of herself that Rachel has never known, and yet when they regard each other, all Rachel sees is HER Santana.

The love surges within her with such force she is helpless against it. Without hesitation, she swivels, arms flinging around Santana's neck to reel in her friend.

"I really, really missed you," she breathes, and presses her lips to the corner of Santana's mouth, because she means it absolutely.

* * *

There's an after party (because_ of course _there's an after party. It's Drew.), but thankfully, it takes place at the Lucky Strike down in Hollywood, who opened their doors especially for Drew and a select few of her guests. Rachel tries not to take it personally that it's only because of Santana that she even gets told of the exclusive event. It's kind of obvious that Drew has this big gay crush on Santana, and considering that Santana has only grown more stunning as she's matured, Rachel isn't sure she really blames her.

But Drew is also hammered, and it would be annoying if it wasn't so adorable. She demands birthday gifts in form of personal favors from every guest, and that's how Rachel ends up giving an impromptu over-the-top performance of 'In My Own Little Corner' for the drunken, amused party-goers. Santana gets a different kind of order. Drew wants a wet birthday kiss and the right to grope Santana's boobs. The kiss Santana bestows on her is surprisingly chaste considering Drew is literally panting at her, but Rachel suspects that has more to do with Drew's good-natured husband Will, who sighs and just pulls her away, than Drew herself.

Santana and Rachel end up in a corner booth, sipping coffee as the wasted patrons trip and laugh their way through their impromptu bowling games. Rachel is content to watch for a bit, before her eyes are drawn away from the action on the lanes to the picture that Santana presents, lounging across from her dressed in stylish high tops, that distractingly tight black tank top and expensive jeans that seemed tailored to fit right at her waist, revealing the firm lines of her stomach where the shirt rides up. Her hair is still long and healthy, but tonight she wears it tucked tightly in a stylish do that is an intricate blend of braids that keep her hair off her face. There are some highlights that tint the locks that fall over her strong shoulders. It's… very rock and roll.

It's kinda … hilarious… to see this side of Santana. It's not that Santana's gone... butch persay. Rachel knows that Santana grew up a tomboy, but as long as Rachel's known her, Santana has always been the epitome of femininity. Honestly, half the time it felt like those painful-looking heels and tight dresses were proving some sort of point about bucking lesbian stereotypes.

But she supposes that those mini-dresses aren't exactly conducive to out-running groupies and spending all night on your feet in a hot box with thumping speakers and lots of electrical equipment.

Not that it matters. Santana could wear a parka and make it look sexy and feminine. Rachel has always envied that about her.

She raises her cup to her lips, oddly flushed when Santana catches her staring and arches an inquisitive brow back. Rachel just takes her sip, but Santana sees it as an opportunity to talk.

"I have to admit," she says, sitting up and crossing her legs and arms as she rests lazy eyes on Rachel. "I kinda figured we'd run into each other eventually, but I never imagined it'd be tonight. Here."

Rachel let's her eyes linger on Santana's tattoos, the colored nails, the gorgeous flowing hair and stunning face. Rachel has come to terms with her unconventional beauty, but it almost stings to be reminded that even after high school, Santana can fall in the gorgeous elite almost without trying.

"We don't exactly run in the same circles," she says, with a touch of bitterness.

Except that's not fair, because this is her former roommate, and Rachel remembers exactly how much time Santana took on her appearance. She knows exactly how much Santana's father paid for that delicious cleavage that fills out that tank top so perfectly. Santana's naturally gorgeous, but she knows how to play the beauty game.

Santana doesn't seem to take offense. "Did we ever?" she asks, and Rachel has to bite down a smile, because there is the cocky bitch she remembers.

"Good point," she concedes, rolling her eyes half-heartedly at Santana's smug confidence.

Someone shouts and a bowling ball goes sailing past the barrier, nearly killing a well-known director, who yelps and trips on his own feet trying to avoid it. Rachel wonders briefly what idiot manager thought it was a good idea to let a bunch of drunk people try to bowl with only a couple fluorescent lights for visibility.

"How is Broadway, Rachel?"

Rachel blinks, focus brought back to her old friend, who watches her carefully. Rachel's smile turns bittersweet.

"Broadway is… amazing," she breathes, and nods with the sincerity of it. "It's everything I thought it would be." And that's true. Rachel has always loved performing, and the Broadway stage is her home. It always will be. Her mouth feels dry and her tongue darts out to moisten them, because Broadway is also so far away. "But," she continues with a heavy tone, "It's also very competitive for the lead roles and my agent says I need to be more marketable and nowadays winning a Tony isn't enough to get a headlining part in a theatre." Santana absorbs that quietly. Rachel offers a pragmatic shrug. "People who buy tickets want to see stars – the ones that are on TV and in the movies, so…"

"So for now, you're in Hollywood," Santana finishes. "Building up your cred."

She nods. It's a rat race she never wanted to have to deal with, to get work she needs fame, and with fame comes the ever present need to stay relevant, because no one casts anyone purely based on talent. Not anymore.

She doesn't want to think about it, so she shifts in her seat and focuses instead on her famous friend. "And you're… a DJ."

"Mmm," Santana says, in mid-sip as her finger goes up. "Actor-Slash-DJ-Slash Famous Lesbian," she corrects, the moment she brings her hand down.

She's making fun of herself with that line. Part of Rachel wants to press in deeper, because clearly Santana isn't all that happy with it, though Rachel's not exactly sure which part.

Santana has always been skittish, however, and Rachel is far too familiar with her defensive habit of lashing out when she's backed into a corner.

Maybe it's selfish to want to ignore it, but she JUST got Santana's back. She's not ready for a fight. Not yet.

She opts for teasing. "Yeah, I saw those groupies," she notes, laughing lightly when Santana groans and rolls her eyes. "They looked ready to string me up for daring to even touch you."

A stray lock of raven hair has stuck to Santana's lips. She unceremoniously blows at it, before losing patience and batting it away. "Yeah, thanks for that, by the way. Wasn't in the mood to deal with them."

"Does… that happen a lot?"

Santana's shrug is careless. "Well, when you have a sex tape and a Steven Soderbergh movie that some critic called 'a shallow but vibrant love song to Santana Lopez's abs'," she air quotes, "The chicks are bound to follow." Rachel blinks and discovers herself once again fighting that heated blush. She saw that movie. Santana's gorgeous abs got their fair share of close-ups. And yes, she's seen the tabloids. Santana's got a reputation as a heartbreaker, but it's hard to judge her for that, considering how much of that garbage is usually lies.

"I saw a few guys standing around too."

Santana snorts gruffly. "I swear to God, if I hear one more guy tell me that he's a lesbian on the inside I'm going to fucking murder someone."

"God, I can imagine," Rachel commiserates, because the douches in this town just get older, not better. "I hate dating in this industry."

Santana's lips purse. "Well, last I heard you didn't have to worry about that." Rachel isn't quite sure where Santana's going with this, until she notices the way Santana's eyes glint with a mischievous glimmer. "What's the name they call you and your boytoy? Troychel?"

"Oh God." Rachel's entire body shudders with embarrassment, head lowering in shame as she covers her face. "Please don't," she begs, but of course Santana's never exactly been subtle when it comes to disapproving of Rachel's boyfriends. "I know he's ridiculous sometimes."

"Sometimes?!" The judgment is evident in Santana's tone. "Troy Ross makes Rob Pattinson look like a member of MENSA."

"Now you're just being mean."

"Being mean would be telling you that I've seen the underwear model pictures and his dick is clearly tinier than a Vienna sausage."

"He's not tall!" she snaps, because Santana is openly insulting her boyfriend and Rachel SHOULD be trying her best to defend him. The fact that a laugh slips out doesn't help her case at all. "And he's a grower!"

"Gross. It makes me long for the days of Finchel," Santana says, relentless now that she actually sees Rachel laughing. "At least Finn had height. This guy makes Tom Cruise look like a giant."

Rachel has actually had the pleasure of working with Mr. Cruise, and yes, having to stand in a ditch just so Mr. Cruise could appear six inches taller than he actually was a little awkward. But still - "Excuse you, he's taller than you!"

Santana falls back against the booth and says simply, "You can do better."

Rachel's smirk fades. It's not the first time she's heard those words from Santana. "You're not wrong," she admits.

It's sobering, to say that out loud.

Rachel's fingers scratch lightly against her coffee cup. She hears the whistles and sounds of the group around her laughing, caught completely in the moment. She suddenly wishes desperately she could be just like them. Satisfied. Happy.

"Showmance?"

Santana's teasing smile has faded. Dark eyes look at her, but the judgment is gone. Rachel supposes she shouldn't be surprised. Her and Santana's relationship has always been seeped in brutal honesty. It's what makes them… THEM.

"Not at first," she breathes, because that's true. Her relationship with Troy began so typically: late nights and a shared connection and chemistry that extended off the set and into trailers and bedrooms. "But…" The sadness that clouds her suddenly is hard to shake. "Yeah… lately it's felt… less than real." Months and distance have taken its toll. They have their own individual legions of support – agents and publicists and managers, but different projects have taken them in different directions, and a relationship that started because there was attraction and mutual affection has begun to feel and act like a business partnership.

"But it gets you press."

Rachel hates that this is the state of things. That this is normal. That Santana isn't even surprised that Romantic-Rachel is_ this_ candid about being in a relationship for the perks and not the love. "He's got a lot of fans that love him and me being with him? Being seen with him?" She shrugs. "It's not terrible for my career. You know the press loves us. The Broadway Belter and the Bad Boy Action Star? It's a modern day fairy tale."

Santana takes that in, but her expression is unreadable as she reaches for her coffee and takes a long, quiet sip. "Even if Prince Charming is a self-absorbed douche that cheats?" she asks, as the cup lowers.

Rachel's chest tightens. "How do you know he does?" she asks in a tone meant to be light and airy. Santana's brow lifts, and the lightness fades. "Yeah, okay." Her eyes prick with sudden moisture, and Rachel has honestly never felt so SMALL. "I mean I used to care but…" But she doesn't love him. But this is work. But her image is more important than her heart. "At least he's careful about it," she continues, and knows she sounds pathetic. "It's more than what some girls can expect."

Santana grimaces, shakes her head as she exhales. "Good point."

Rachel's shoulders slump. She waits, because judging by past experience, this is right about the time that Santana blows up at her, telling her that this isn't the Rachel Berry who annoyed the shit out of her in high school, and she doesn't recognize her anymore.

Honestly, Rachel kinda wants to hear it, which is really pathetic. Is she really that homesick for the lofty loft in New York?

But Santana, who has been surprising her all night, continues the streak, and says instead, "Do me a favor and walk me out when this is over, okay? I have a feeling that Drew is gonna ask for a threesome and I'm so not in the mood to be polite about saying no." She sighs, and then pauses when she notices Rachel's startled face. "What? She asks all the time!"

"That's it?" Rachel asks.

"What?"

"You're not going to judge me? Yell at me? Accuse me of selling out and not being the wide-eyed, idealistic and proud Rachel Berry you remember?"

Santana's eyes narrow. After a moment, she sits up in her seat and recrosses her arms. "I guess that depends," she answers evenly. "Am I the Santana Lopez you remember?"

Rachel takes a breath, and lets her eyes linger over the familiar form of Santana Lopez with all her unfamiliar traits: new tattoos, highlights in her hair, the way she just stares at her with no judgment. "Undecided," she muses.

Santana's mouth quirks into a barely-there smile, before it fades just as quickly. She shifts against the leather and comes in close, until they're sitting side by side. "Look," she begins, when her bare arm is pressed against Rachel's and her thigh brushes against Rachel's naked leg. "I get it. And honestly, I can't believe I'm going to say this, but I'm just so fucking happy to see you, you could have your OWN sex tape, and I'd be offering to mix beats at the release party."

With Santana pressed in so intimately, Rachel can notice the details that she can't believe she's forgotten: that tiny scar just below Santana's lower lip (from getting a mole removed) that gets just a little more pronounced when she smiles. The outlines of Santana's contacts that do nothing to diminish the deep brown of her eyes. The way Santana smells, subtle and yet so pronounced Rachel used to know immediately whenever Santana was home before she even saw her.

She remembers late nights, pillow fights and real fights. She remembers dancing barefoot on cold wooden floors and bundling up on a couch for warmth and having to break Santana of the habit of bringing home every single busted piece of gross furniture she could find.

Suddenly, Rachel is really, really happy. With a shaky smile and glistening eyes, she leans in against her friend and tilts her forehead against that soft, slender shoulder. "I missed you too, Santana."

* * *

Rachel honestly just spent the night reconnecting with a friend. Every hug and kiss she gave Santana that night is because she loves her and genuinely missed her.

TMZ sees it differently.

Rachel learns of it when her publicist JoAnn sends her an email the next morning with a lot of clickable links and a Google alert that features grainy cell phone pictures of Rachel and Santana intimately intertwined at Drew's party.

"Broadway Diva's Wild Night with Santana Lezpez!" is the cheerful headline.

She's staring at one picture in particular, which she recognizes immediately as the moment Santana 'taught' her to scratch, when she gets a phone call.

"Would you like to share with the class?" JoAnn asks, in that typically unflappable amused tone.

"It's not what it looks like," she says immediately, because whoever took this got an angle that makes it look like Santana's practically licking her ear, with her arms twined around her and Rachel leaning back into her embrace, a big sloppy smile on her face. "Santana is just a friend."

"Santana Lopez, Lady Killer, is just a friend?" JoAnn adds, clearly skeptical. "Do you and this friend make out often?"

Rachel scrolls a little further and sees that yes, that same person got a picture of Rachel pressing a kiss against Santana's cheek. She does dimly remember hitting the corner of her mouth, but at this angle, it looks disturbingly like they're frenching.

"I was going for her cheek! Getting her on the mouth was an accident!"

"Then we need to work on your aim."

Rachel sighs, and bunches her covers closer in around her. There's more. Thankfully none of Drew's Lucky Strike After Party (she can't even begin to imagine what they would say to her and Santana being in a secluded, dark booth all night), but their reintroduction after all this time has been immortalized on grainy loop video. She feels like a curious outsider as she watches Santana plow through a crowd to practically straddle her.

"So, heads up, Tumblr is going nuts. Don't go into the Rachel Berry tag. The Troy-bots are livid."

Rachel eyes flutter closed in exasperation. "Then I'll stay off Twitter too," she mutters because yeah, his fans are quite protective of poor little Troy and nothing is ever good enough to deserve him. She's been on the receiving end of their ire before. It's never fun. "Have you told Troy?" A vibration against her ear distracts her, and she pulls back to glance at the incoming message. Her mood turns sourer still. "Nevermind. Just got his text."

"What's he say?"

"In his own words," she begins, irate. "Hot."

"Love that guy," JoAnn sighs, and she's actually being sincere about it. Rachel bites her lips to stop herself from making a very dramatic eye roll. "Okay, Rachel, why don't you tell me what really happened, so we can figure out how to spin this?"

It's ridiculous and infuriating. Rachel has been a little lonely lately, and maybe that was enough to forget that there were other people at this party, but it's just…

She futzes with her tablet, and finds herself studying a picture of her and Santana leaving the venue. This one is a pap shot, so it's clear and crisp. Their hands are intertwined as they keep their heads down, obviously walking fast to get away from the paparazzi and their flashes. Rachel is gripping at Santana for support, because her heels are making the downhill slope of the concrete slippery.

Perez Hilton says she's obviously hammered and can't wait to be the next notch on Santana's belt. An anonymous commenter says it reeks of desperation. Some anonymous party-goer reports that it was actually kinda sweet to see them like that, like there was no one else in the world but the two of them. And that they were clearly eye sexing.

There's something incredibly wrong about having her beautiful night of reconnecting with a woman she once considered family be reduced by the online gossip blogs to a torrid lesbian fling.

"Nothing happened!" she snaps, eyes fluttering closed as she rubs at them in exasperation. "I swear, JoAnn. Santana and I used to live together-"

"Excuse me?" JoAnn clips, tone rising in urgency.

"Not like that!" she snaps because _God_. "In New York. Before I got _Cinderella_. We lived with this other guy-"

"I'm sorry?!"

"He was gay!" She yelps. "Stop!"

Her phone vibrates again. This time, Santana's name appears on the screen with a message that reads: _HOLY SHIT. _

Rachel can only laugh at the absurdity, putting JoAnn on speaker so she can quickly type back: _I KNOW!_

"Look," JoAnn sighs. "I know the gay thing works for a few people, and it really works for HER." Rachel grimaces, but finds she has to agree as the phone buzzes again: _Why the hell didn't you tell me we were fucking?_

She grins at the joke: _Well, it's not exactly a Uhaul but… _

"-but that is NOT your image and it's not your audience."

Rachel's smile fades immediately. "My audience?" she repeats, infuriated. "JoAnn, I'm a Broadway actress who has two gay dads. I've performed at more Pride Festivals than I can remember AND flew on a Gay Cruise for Rosie. Gays are exactly my audience."

"Sure, and that's why you're slumming it on the ABC Cop Drama instead of starting that new workshop with Sondheim."

God, JoAnn always did know how to hit below the belt.

"Look, it's not like that. Seriously! Santana and I are just friends, and I was just really happy to see her."

Her phone buzzes again: _Just wait until these assholes find out we were in Glee Club together. _

Rachel's head shakes at the thought: _We'll break YouTube. Who do you think will catch it first? TMZ?_

"You promise?"

"Yes," she grouses, because she is not in the mood to be polite.

_The fans. Those girls find everything. I've seen my sex tape gifed so much that it's like… got a Meme now. That's what it's called right? _

Rachel blinks. _Remind me to never Google you. Ever._

"Okay!" JoAnn says brightly. Apparently Rachel has been sufficiently convincing. "Well then in that case, let's have some fun with this."

_You're missing out, Rachel Berry. _

Rachel frowns. She has no idea what either woman means.

* * *

"How would you like to do a song together?" JoAnn's teeth are so white it's almost blinding.

"… what?" Rachel asks dumbly, because for a momentarily she's utter flabbergasted. "I thought you told me you wanted to play DOWN the rumors."

"Well, apparently this is the injection of crack that Colombia needed to finally push forward on your album."

This, apparently, is JoAnn's big strategy. Rachel has to admit, as far as publicity stunts go, it's a good one. There's been an active fight with Columbia to move forward on her record deal, and Rachel knows why. She's a Broadway singer, and though Columbia has shifted her to their smaller label, she knows their expectation for a Billboard Pop hit is low. She's simply not a priority.

And then Santana happened.

The Glee Club connection was discovered quite quickly by their fans, and now old videos of New Directions performances, both on stage and in the Choir Room are being circulated, including a (in retrospect) rather incriminating cover of 'I Kissed a Girl' and a rendition of 'So Emotional' that, upon rewatch years later, really does look insanely flirtatious.

Santana's fans are not her fans and now that they are publically in each other's orbit, she's noticed quite a shift in her own buzz. Rachel has always been considered unconventionally sexy, but apparently a perceived raunchy lesbian fling with Santana Lopez can do wonders for your sex appeal.

That's now a good thing. JoAnn adopts the 'any press is good press as long as the lesbian thing isn't really true' mentality, and while Rachel heads on Troy's arm to the premiere of his next movie, her manager gets to work with Santana's management to talk about doing a collaboration.

She's always known they sing well together. It's actually kind of a thrill to realize that the rest of the world agrees.

_Your people are talking to my people_, Santana texts her later that night. _I feel like I'm in a gang._

She smiles at the text, but it fades quickly when Troy presses his weight in against her and curiously glances at her screen. "Playing with your friend again?" he comments sleepily, looking at the image on her phone that Rachel has chosen as her default thumbnail for Santana. It's grainy and the flash makes them both look washed out, but they're tucked in close together in that Lucky Strike corner booth with their faces mashed against each other, and grinning so toothily they look like idiots.

"Actually, we're going to work together on a song for my album," she responds with a touch of annoyance, and she quickly types back, _Well, we already got our street cred from West Side Story… _

"Cool," he says, and goes back to playing the racing game on his IPAD.

_Well this song better be a little more hip than that. I gotsa rep to protect, Hobbit._

_Please. Do I even have to ask if you still have that gross girlfriend pillow Kurt gave you way back when? :-P_

_Fuck you, Cathy is family. _

"Just be careful."

Rachel stiffens. "Be careful of what?" Troy doesn't look up, too engrossed in his game. "Troy," she presses, now openly irritated. "Just spit it out."

The car crashes, exploding in all its SFX glory. He sighs, though Rachel isn't sure if it's because of her or losing his game. "Look," he says, bringing the tablet down and looking at her. "Santana's hot and she makes you hotter, and that makes me hotter by extension, so you know I'm cool with that." Rachel's eyes roll hard. Troy's hand lands on her arm, pressing lightly. "But the minute people think there's something real there, it's gonna fuck us all over. I can't be the guy whose girl turns into a lesbian. And you don't want to be Anne Heche."

The pit that has suddenly weighted her stomach is revolting. "Do you even know who Anne Heche is?" she asks.

"Does anyone?" he asks pointedly. Rachel falters, her annoyance tempered when he shoots her a knowing look before flopping over to his side of the bed.

Troy is a smart guy. She sometimes forgets that. There's a reason why he's so successful in this industry. He plays the game like he was born for it.

She glances down at her phone, looks at Santana's name and the tiny picture of the two of them together.

Getting Santana to help mix a new song on her album gets things moving at Columbia. Already, it's helping to age her fanbase down.

It's the best thing for her career right now, and she knows it.

But there's a sinking pit in her stomach that tells her that this feels like she's using Santana, and Rachel isn't sure why she can't shake it off.

* * *

She doesn't... back off persay. There's nothing really to back off from. She and Santana are legitimately just friends. And really, so what if the media and their fans seem to read into every little thing they do?

* * *

She gets a text while she's sitting on a chair on set, waiting for the lights to be reset, and being prodded and pricked by hair and wardrobe: _So are we doing this thing or not? _

It's Santana who, according to her manager, has been in Germany the last week headlining some crazy music festival. Rachel feels her heart jump. It's almost silly how much she's missed Santana, considering that before this month they hadn't spoken in years.

Juan, the hair stylist, spritzes some product in her hair while she tilts the phone and types back: _Is that your way of telling me that you're back in town and ready to start collaborating? _

"Babe, I need you to lift your head for me."

She obeys, so Margot, the makeup artist, can carefully float some powder on her nose to keep it from shining. Rachel's phone buzzes again.

_God, sue me if I forgot how to speak Rachel. _

The grin that floats on her face seems ridiculously giddy. _I'd say you're still pretty good at it. _

"That the boyfriend or the publicist?" Rachel glances up, smile muting as Margot puts her brushes back in her fanny pack. Margot is being sweet and conversational, and that's all.

So she resettles in her chair and shakes her head, ready to answer when a text comes back almost immediately: _I'm good at a lot of things. _

She laughs, until she realizes that both Juan and Margot are now both looking at her with blatant curiosity.

"Neither," she answers finally, but keeps her eyes on her phone: _That I've also heard. _

"Well whoever it is, they've got you blushing, honey."

She's NOT, though she does feel a little heated at the moment. Television sets are normally cold to overcompensate for the bright lights, but this one seems unreasonably warm. "It's just my friend Santana."

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. Both Juan and Margot freeze in almost scary synchronized unison.

"Wait… not Santana Lopez," Margot says, eyes narrowing.

Rachel's phone buzzes, and she wills herself not to look quite yet. "Yeah," she says haltingly. "Are you a fan?"

"So the rumors are true?!" Juan squeaks, and Rachel rolls her eyes and glances back down at her screen: _Well now I wanna know what you heard._

"Oh honey, no," Margot says with this dramatic sigh. "Don't do that to Troy! You can crack a walnut on his little tush!"

The happy flush that's been crawling up her cheeks fades momentarily. In its place, she feels a cold chill of annoyance. "You two are ridiculous," she snaps, before her teeth press gnawingly into her lower lip and she types, _Nothing you haven't heard yourself, I imagine._ "We've been friends since high school and now we're working on a song together. Not everyone wants to sleep with Santana Lopez."

"Hell, I do," Juan twitters. "What?" he says defensively, when both women stare at him. "I told you guys I was straight?!"

"We didn't believe you," Margot informs him and ignores the face he gives her when another actor calls for makeup. She's off, like brush-laden Make Over superhero.

"And you wouldn't have a chance anyway," Rachel says to Juan, hand drifting distractedly to her nape as her phone buzzes: _Hmm... I would say people exaggerate but when it comes to the skillz, I have to admit, I'm pretty bad ass. _

Rachel's quiet smile widens: _I know. I was in the next curtain room over, remember?_

"Oh don't do that!" Juan slaps at her hand, keeping it out of her hair. "I just fixed that."

"Sorry!" she says, but feels oddly self-conscious when he just stares at her. "What?"

"You realize you're giggling like a giddy school girl, right?"

Rachel stiffens. Her eyes flicker up coldly. "What you're seeing is someone who is grateful and happy to reconnect with her best friend. That's all."

"You sure?" he asks, brow rising high.

"Yes," she snaps, and crosses her legs. The annoyance is starting to become real. Juan won't GO AWAY, and though she usually enjoys his company, it's beyond obvious that she's busy. "Juan, what?!"

"Are her boobs real?"

"Get away from me," she says, shoving at his chest with a heeled foot. He guffaws and bows, waving his hand in surrender as he heads over to check the rest of the actors in the scene.

_Oh shit, well two can play at that game. Remember that time I literally got a face full of hairy Man-Butt because you and Brody forgot I slept on the couch? Cause I sure as hell do._

Rachel's laughter nearly explodes from her throat. She does remember that now. Brody used to equate that memory of sitting on a sleeping cat, claws and all.

_Okay, number 1 - Brody used to wax. That butt was clean. and two - That was entirely your fault. I told you to buy a bed!_

_... Gross_. Rachel shakes her head; the picture of Santana's disgusted expression is conjured almost too easily_. And you still owe me for that._

Santana _would_ think that. Rachel's tongue darts down to wet her lips. M_mhmm. And what do I owe you exactly?_

For a moment, all Rachel sees is the tiny little dots that show her that her message is being read. She sits, oddly on edge as she waits for the reply. _Been figuring that out for five years, Rachel. _

It's a little disappointing that Santana isn't more specific. Rachel's kind of curious what kind of favors Santana looks for nowadays: _Then I look forward to finding out._

_Me too. Thursday? Dinner, wine then an intimate jam session at my place?_

_I think it's a date. Can't wait. _

"Two minutes!" Rachel nods to the AD so he knows she's heard him and brings her attention back to her phone. After a moment, she finds herself swiping over to her gallery of photos. There's a few from Drew's party, taken later in the evening when she and Santana were a little tipsier. They're cheek to cheek; Rachel's eyes are closed but her face is scrunched in a silly smile. She looks so happy, pressed intimately against Santana, arms thrown sloppily around her shoulders.

She has a moment of hesitation, before Rachel squares her shoulders and makes up her mind. Quickly, she opens up Instagram, and chooses a filter for the photo that brightens up the dark picture. She uploads it with the caption, "Nothing better than reconnecting with old friends." and adds the hashtag #loftymemories.

She adds a smiley for affect and tags Santana's Instagram account. A moment, and then a press of her finger and it's uploaded to Cyberspace. Rachel immediately pushes off her chair, heading toward the waving AD, ready to replace the Stand In and get through the scene.

When it's over, Rachel goes back to her chair and discovers she's already received a flood of notifications. The one that makes her smile is from Instagram account SantanaDJLopez, who comments, "New York ain't got nothing on LA. The best is yet to come. #makingbeautifulmusictogether."

Rachel stares at the comment, and then at Santana's profile picture.

Her stomach twists, her chest tightens, and it's the best possible emotion.

* * *

When Rachel's phone rings and she immediately recognizes the ringtone as Kurt's, she knows it's either an emergency or Kurt is drunk. A Madrid party goes all night, and Kurt has adapted as readily and eagerly as any gorgeous, successful gay man would.

Rachel's driving to Santana's, but thankfully, she's never lost that responsible edge and so she easily answers via her voice automated Bluetooth. "Kurt, why are you calling? It's four AM in Madrid!"

"Bitch, I know what time it is!" So… drunk then. "And don't try to distract me! I'm so pissed at you!"

"Kurt, I'm driving," she warns, and signals for a left turn. "Can you be pissed at me tomorrow when you're sober?"

"No! I wanna be pissed right now! Why didn't you tell me you had met up with Santana?!"

"Because the time zones suck and you never answer your emails or texts during Fashion Week?" she sputters, and then blinks, making the turn. "And how did you find out?!"

"Tina Cohen-Chang-Chang sent me a link to some VERY steamy pictures."

Rachel would roll her eyes extra hard for emphasis, but unfortunately, she has to keep her attention on the road. Los Angeles drivers suck. "Doesn't she have anything else to do other than send everyone every bit of New Directions gossip she can get her hands on?"

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm not!" Rachel's head shakes with annoyance. "It's just sad and a little stupid!"

"What's stupid is that I had to find out from TINA that my two old roommates are hooking up!" he squeals, words slurring a bit in his drunkenness.

Rachel comes to a stop sign and sighs, eyes closing in frustration. "Kurt, we're not hooking up. Don't be ridiculous. You of all people should know better."

"I see… and this picture of you hoover-latched on to her mouth-"

"I was going for her cheek!"

"Why didn't you call me?!" he pouts, genuinely put out by it all. "You know I miss her too!"

"You're on a whole other continent," she reminds him, but oddly, she finds herself wondering why she hasn't called him. It should have been her first impulse. She and Kurt may not be as close as they used to be, distance will do that to any friendship, but they still try to maintain their monthly SKYPE gossip-fest. Considering their history and the fact that he and Santana had their own special gay-friendship, he should have been the first to know that they had found each other again.

But she hadn't told him. She hadn't told anyone. Not even Quinn, who still calls often and randomly talks about Santana and how annoying it is to see her and her abs splashed on different posters around New York.

This thing with Santana, random texts that make her smile and give her a giddy, wonderful feeling, she's kept to herself.

Maybe Rachel hasn't been ready to let the rest of the world in. They've invaded enough of their privacy.

"That is no excuse."

"I'm sorry," she relents, because there's nothing else she can say. "Honestly, it's just happened so quickly. We ran into each other at Drew's party, and then now we're working on a song together-"

"Oh My God, does Quinn know?"

"… No," she responds, because that's random.

"She'll want to know," he twitters. "Oh! Tell that Santana bitch to call me! And ask Santana if she's got ab implants! And whether or not I can confirm that boob job!"

"Oh for the love of God, Kurt!" Rachel shakes her head, and reminds herself once more than her chatty best friend is also drunk as hell. Her GPS warns her that she's approaching the residence of one Santana Lopez. "Look, I have to let you go-"

"-but-"

"I promise I will call you and tell you EVERYTHING, but right now I have dinner plans."

"Oooh, what does Troy think?!"

"I'm hanging up!" she snaps and follows through, cutting off the call even though Kurt sputters in complaint.

Santana owns a gorgeous place in a quietly expensive part of West LA, in an area where parking can be a real pain unless you have a garage or a permit. Santana, thankfully, has already given Rachel permission to use her driveway, and so she easily pulls up behind Santana's now recognizable red metallic Mercedes G 63 AMG. Rachel makes a note to bite her tongue in order to keep from scolding Santana on the gas-guzzling, presumptuous monstrosity.

She sits in the car for a brief moment, and considers her situation. There's a tense knot in her stomach.

Rachel equates it to nerves. She's been reminded of the stakes once again by her publicist, who has told her in no uncertain terms that she needs this. Rachel's wrapped up her recurring guest stint, and is now treading water in that horrible limbo that comes with waiting for different prospects and projects to pan out and hoping her headshot is the one that lands on top.

There's also a very real possibility that she'll be back on Broadway soon; her old producer who launched her career with _Cinderella_ has begun working on a modern revival of _Into the Woods_, and Rachel's her first choice for the role of the Witch.

Provided, of course that she can 'get her investors in line'.

Rachel's worked in the business too long to be ignorant about what that means; it's not her talent that's in question. Apparently, Leighton Meester has also expressed interest, and has a hot new drama on TNT that gives her cache.

There's real pressure to deliver something good with Santana, something that will get her noticed and put her on the charts with a solid hit or at least the right kind of buzz. Enough buzz will sell tickets, put asses in seats and will give investors the incentive to cast Rachel in the part.

Rachel glances up to eye herself in the mirror. She's determinedly casual, but she makes a point of fluffing out her bangs and rechecking her eyeliner before she opens her car door and begins the significantly long walk up the sidewalk.

It's hard not to wonder what Santana is getting out of this. Her friend's fame may be a little more scandalously earned than her own (her rise to fame is predictably boring in comparison), but she's appreciated for more than just her sex tape. Santana has worked with some of the most recognized music artists in the industry. She's Stephen Soderbergh's current muse, and though Santana seems to genuinely prefer music to acting, she's in that very fortunate place where she's hot and marketable and able to pick her projects.

It takes more humility than Rachel thinks she has to admit that Santana doesn't actually need this. The fact that Santana has agreed to this collaboration so readily has had Rachel wondering quite a bit what Santana's true motivations are.

It's unfair to Santana, really. They had their differences, and yes Santana used to be manipulative as hell when she wanted something, but what could she possibly gain here other than a chance to sing and work with an old friend?

She knows Santana cares about her. They forged a genuine and real connection in New York; Santana was there for her when even Kurt couldn't begin to know how to help her. God, Santana even confessed to genuinely loving Rachel, and that was during the period of time when Rachel kicked her out of her apartment for trying to expose her man whore boyfriend, making Santana's 'breasts ache with rage' in the process.

This is an opportunity, and a good one. The fact that it's with Santana? It's icing on the cake.

Bolstered, Rachel heads up the stone steps to Santana's impressive home and raises her hand, ready to knock on the heavy wooden door when suddenly it bursts outward, flying open and making her nearly trip back down the stairs in surprise.

It's Santana of course, with her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and her bright brown eyes shining brightly with mischief. "Guess what I picked up at Pavilions," she says in a tone that's almost CHIPPER, like it hasn't been at least a month since they've last seen each other. She holds up a copy of STAR. "We're not just digital anymore."

It takes Rachel a moment to gather herself. She narrows her eyes and focuses on the magazine that Santana is shaking at her. And oh wow… she's actually looking at a recently snapped shot of her and Troy at his movie premiere, with a dramatic line splitting the two of them. 'Hollywood Homewrecker?" is the question in bright white font. Nestled meaningfully between the two is one of those ridiculous shots of her and Santana intimately standing together at Drew's party. 'Inside the torrid Bi-sexual love triangle', reads the caption below it.

Rachel's eyes widen and her breath quickens in horror. "Oh God," she breathes, snatching the magazine out of Santana's hands to get a better look. "Are you kidding?"

Santana just looks fucking amused. "Apparently, I rocked your world and ruined you for all penises everywhere," she preens, which is really aggravating.

"This is so stupid," Rachel breathes, stepping into the house and keeping her fingers and eyes glued to the glossy pages, turning and skimming until she finds the cover story. There she is, plastered all over the spread. Supposed confirmed sources 'close' to her and Santana state confidently that she's infatuated with her high school friend and ready to leave Troy.

"Well obviously," Santana says, shutting the door behind her. "But it's also pretty damn funny."

It's really, really not.

"Why is it funny?" she snaps.

Had Santana not presented her with this piece of trash the second she walked up to her door, Rachel might have taken the time to notice Santana's house, compliment her on the dark tones and tasteful decorations clearly placed there by an interior decorator and not Santana herself, who Rachel remembers as always being somewhat of a messy roommate.

Instead, Rachel thoughtlessly sinksdown onto Santana's black vintage couch, scanning the article with an increasing sense of dismay.

"Why is it not?"

"These people are telling lies about us, Santana!"

Santana seems distressingly unperturbed. "Oh come on," she says, in that same dismissive tone she always used to use when Rachel was trying to actually be sincere about something and she never gave a shit. "They're just excited. It'll be old news in like a month." She's sipping on a glass of red wine, legs crossing as she settles in a lounge chair, regarding Rachel like some dame from a forties flick. "Do you know how many girls I've reportedly corrupted?"

It's the blasé tone that pushes the irritation into actual annoyance at her old friend. "I do actually," she snaps, slapping the magazine down and tossing it on the cushion beside her. "And I'm not exactly itching to become one of them."

"What the hell does that mean?" Santana asks after a moment, with a defensive hitch in her throat that Rachel immediately recognizes, because of course NOW Santana decides she's insulted.

Rachel's eyes flutter closed. She's heated and blushing, and there's a panicky fluttering in her chest that makes it difficult to breathe.

Still, she tries her best to calm herself, pressing her palm against her face and breathing in deeply. "Nothing," she mumbles, because it's just a stupid magazine and it's lies and it's not worth it.

But of course, now that Santana's hurt and pissed off, it's apparently completely worth it to her."No really, you're actually complaining about this?" The boots Santana wears kick in the direction of the stupid magazine. "What happened to any press is good press, Rachel?"

"Santana," she moans, because this isn't what she came for. Not now. "Can we not-"

"When's the last time you've been on the cover of _Star_, Rachel?"

Rachel winces.

Santana still knows how to slice where it hurts. Though she and Santana have texted frequently since their reconnection, they've never discussed career beyond the first night. It's been a subject that's been avoided because it seems to be a sensitive subject for both of them.

At least until one of them gets pissed off.

With stiff shoulders and a cold glare, Rachel finds herself drawling to her glaring friend, "Well it's nice to know that all these years haven't made you any less of a _bitch_, Santana."

She regrets this turn of events immediately. She's been looking forward to today. She's wanted to see Santana again for weeks now, and honestly all that she wanted when she came to the doorway is to see Santana's beautiful face, hug that gorgeous figure, and smile and chat over a glass of wine. She didn't want… petty arguing over something that shouldn't mean anything at all.

And God, she knows better.

Rachel knows how easily Santana's feathers get ruffled. She's always been annoyingly delicate, like an armadillo that's been turned over, with that soft squishy belly hidden under those armored plates.

"Fine," she snaps, and knocks her glass so hard on the table beside her it nearly sloshes over the cup. "Whatever Rachel." She rises and it makes Rachel stand too. "You know if this is bothering you this much we don't have to work together."

Of course, that's exactly where Santana goes. "Santana," she sighs, tired of this now. "Come on."

It's almost annoying how even after all these years, Rachel can recognize the hurt that flashes in Santana's suddenly vulnerable eyes before she's met with that stone-faced expression.

"No seriously!" Santana's hair falls forward, hiding her face from Rachel as she whirls, snapping up the stupid magazine and shaking it at her. "If you're so afraid of your pussy getting Santana'd then we can just quit this right now. I don't want you to catch the gay!"

And God, wouldn't that be delicious tabloid fodder? The Broadway Diva and the temperamental Superstar DJ can't even spend five minutes with each other without wanting to claw each other's eyes out? Collaboration dissolves over personality conflicts!

She needs to stop thinking in headlines.

Rachel isn't sure how the anger has faded. It seems to have ebbed away as quickly as its come. Rachel is glad for it. It gives her perspective, and now she's feeling both guilty and apologetic. Clearly, she's hit a sore subject with Santana, and maybe Santana's encountered this before. It can't be easy to be such an easy target with the media, to be seen with a woman and immediately be painted as a harlot or a home wrecker.

Maybe Santana thought Rachel would be the one person to not care about any of it. Who would look at that magazine and just laugh, because it's not true and Santana is just Santana to her.

No more, no less.

With an indrawn breath, Rachel palms against her thighs and steps forward. She guides herself with instinct, edging forward until she's carefully moved into Santana's space. Santana stiffens, but doesn't move away. It's a good sign.

"You know I don't want to do that," she says quietly, almost a whisper against Santana's cheek.

She hears Santana's breath go uneven. Dark eyes turn and study her intensely. "So what do you want?" she asks, soft and quiet. Rachel feels her heart thud with affection because she knows that Santana doesn't really want to see her go, any more than Rachel wants to leave.

She offers a smile that Santana once called 'infuriatingly charming', and presses in closer. "I want to sing with you," she admits, quiet and to the point. "And I want to not give a shit what the rest of the world thinks about it." Santana's mouth twitches at her crassness. She always did like it when Rachel swore. Rachel tilts her head, drags the toe of her heels on Santana's hardwood floor. "Do you want to sing with me?" she asks, quietly vulnerable.

There it is, that sweet smile that forms on Santana's lips when she's amused or affected against her will. "Fuck you Rachel," she sighs, and Rachel's mouth stretches into a genuine grin when she continues grumpily, "God help me, I really do."

That giddy, happy feeling that's Santana's managed to bring out of her so easily lately with just a text or a call comes back in full force.

"Then let's start over," she says, and clears her throat, shaking her hands to rid herself of the negative energy and offers her well-practiced mega-watt best smile for her friend. "Hi Santana, it's good to see you. I've missed you."

Santana's brow rises, clearly amused against her will, and she rolls her eyes and mutters, "Berry, it's good to see you too."

"I'm going to hug you now," Rachel warns, because she's close enough and she wants to do it. She doesn't wait for Santana's permission; just takes in that extra half step to slide her hands around Santana's tiny waist and bring her in close.

Santana's arms press in against her shoulders, and Rachel can hear her friends heartbeat, unsteady thanks to their little spat, bopping against her chest like one of those bass speakers that Santana loves so much.

Lips brush against her forehead and Rachel sighs in contentment.

"You know it's been years," Santana mumbles against her temple, "You don't have to warn me every time you hug me. I'm used to it by now."

Rachel laughs and reaches back to slap her friend lightly across her shoulder. Santana smiles sweetly, and Rachel is so, so glad that they're okay.

* * *

She finally gets a tour, of the first floor at least, and some hot tea instead of wine, because she is going to be singing after all, before they venture downstairs to Santana's basement and into Santana's sound-proofed, professional and intimate recording studio. In here, Rachel sees Santana's true self. Piles of records and pinboards tacked with old pictures and notes litter the area. There's an award or two there, because Santana's only released a couple albums but there's been a few hits on both, and a little mini-fridge that hums and makes Rachel think of a dorm room.

It's such a leap from the tiny computer and huge headphones that Santana used to wear sitting on the couch back when she took that music theory course, and Rachel discovers she's actually choked up with pride.

"Impressed?" she hears, and turns from the expensive equipment to Santana, smug as hell as she leans against the doorway, content it seems to just let Rachel discover the place.

"Um… wow," she laughs, because this is an amazing space to work and honestly she is jealous as hell. " I _am_ impressed." Her fingers skim against the table that features the audio interface, all the knobs and levels and dials that will fine tune the sound.

"I usually have a few assistants and my producer but I thought since we're just brain storming, it can be just me and you."

"Do you work from out here a lot?"

There's a small stool in the center of the room, poised with a microphone fitted loosely in its own stand. It looks quiet and lonely, all by itself.

Rachel's distracted from the image when she feels the brush of Santana, who settles in beside her, fiddling with the levels, flipping on switches that turn lights green and red. She's gentle as she works with her equipment, and Rachel finds it quietly fascinating.

"I still go into the studio to record the big label stuff, but this is home to me." Santana pauses, and glances at her, and seems to reconsider that. "Well… New York is home," she amends. "But when I'm here… here I am."

It explains the cold, impersonal house. Santana makes her living hopping continents. Rachel would venture a guess that when Santana is in town, she spends more nights on that raggedly old leather couch that's settled in the corner than in the pristine thousand dollar mattress in her bedroom upstairs.

"I know what you mean." Rachel drags her fingers along the equipment, careful not to disturb anything. With an exhalation of breath she didn't realize she was holding, she steps away from Santana to head for that stool. She settles down onto it, oddly content and passive as she watches Santana in her element, manipulating all those little buttons and grabbing hold of the giant headphones that look more expensive than Rachel's designer watch.

"You know I bought that loft."

Rachel blinks, eyes lifting to witness Santana's suddenly shy smile. She finds her smile widening, a laugh of disbelief falling out of her. "Are you serious?"

"Mmmhm." Santana turns away from the interface, and leans up against it, arms crossed, regarding Rachel. "Don't get too excited. It's not exactly the same. I put in actual walls," she drawls with a sly, mischievous smile.

Rachel fights the urge to roll her eyes as she shakes her head and replies just as flippantly, "Well I'm sure there's quite a few ladies that are happy to hear about that."

If it was something she constantly heard Santana complain about, it was the fact that they lived like hippies and all knew exactly when and how often the other roommates got laid.

She also once told Rachel that she was living out her own nightmare because she now knew that Rachel was as loud in bed as she was in the shower, and then proceeded to do an eerily accurate imitation of Rachel having an orgasm.

It was mortifying.

The heated blush that tints her cheeks doesn't fade because following that memory comes another one, when during a visit from MIT genius Brittany, Rachel heard sounds coming from Santana's curtained room all night (and all morning) that sounded like she was being murdered by pure pleasure.

God, she knows exactly what Santana sounds like when she comes.

Rachel has no idea why the very idea makes her so breathless.

"Not as many as you'd think," Santana says suddenly. Rachel glances up heatedly, but Santana doesn't face her. She's lost in her work, and Rachel's glad for it.

Goosebumps have prickled on her arm and there's an image of Santana naked that it entirely too easy to conjure up, because that bathroom was SMALL, and they had surprisingly little boundaries for a lesbian, a gay man and a woman who is mostly straight. Probably.

She's not really sure anymore right now.

"Right," she says, and nearly kicks herself when she realizes how strained her voice sounds. "I'll have to text Kurt. I know he loved that place as much as I did." She manages a smile. "It might be nice to see it sometime."

"I'll keep you posted," Santana says, low and quiet, absorbed in whatever program she's pulling up. Rachel is struck by how… husky her voice sounds in this small room. Rachel has always admired the raspy quality of Santana's tone, but it's never felt this… thick before. She attributes it to the padding on the walls, engineered so no sound can escape it. "Sometimes I sublet." There's a smirk on Santana's face; it's sexy in a way Rachel doesn't ever remember it being.

She realizes she's staring the moment Santana's dark eyes lift and connect with her own.

The sudden emotion that erupts within her so unsettling Rachel nearly spills her tea. She fumbles, eyes skimming away, bringing the cup to her lips and drinking deep.

"So…" Rachel begins, once she's regained her poise. "Music?" she tries, because there's a reason why they're here, and it's not to contemplate on why Santana seems to be suddenly leaking pheromones.

"Right," Santana says after a moment, and Rachel's quietly grateful when she turns away, back to her dials and headphones. "Well… I've been thinking about style, and working on a few beats."

Rachel's done a little preparation of her own. She's heard Santana's albums. It's surprising; Santana doesn't sing on her tracks as much as she would expect. Santana's instead put her talent in mixing the music. She's chosen certain artists to match the different songs, clearly experimenting with genres and different voices. Still, they all have their own unique pulsing rhythm; Santana's mixed beats are intoxicating and perfect for a dance floor or a work-out routine.

Rachel has always known her own strengths and her own weaknesses. Even in high school, she knew what her voice was suited for. It's a remix of Amy Winehouse' Rehab. "Okay," she answers unsteadily, feeling suddenly vulnerable. "I'm not sure how good I am at disco music."

Santana pauses long enough to shoot a hard glare over the console. "I'm going to ignore the fact that you called my shit disco music," she says, with enough exaggerated offense to make Rachel giggle, "And instead say that I have something else in mind."

"Oh?"

Santana grins this secret smile that is more charming than it should be. She pauses, brushing bangs out of her face as she glances back up at her. "Yeah. Remember when you sang that David Guetta song 'Without You' in Glee Club?"

"I do." Of course she does. She remembers that day vividly. It comes back so quickly, young Rachel perched on a stool so similar to this one, pouring her heart out to Finn Hudson, because at that moment he was her very world and she needed desperately for him to know that.

A knot suddenly locks into the back of her throat.

She didn't think she could live without him, and now… when was the last time she's even thought about Finn?

"I liked it." Rachel exhales, shaken out of her memory to find that Santana isn't facing her as she makes her confession. Instead her friend seems oddly shy, like a kid who's just admitted a crush.

The painful nostalgia is replaced with heartwarming affection, because honestly, what are the odds that this person would be the one that's still around after all this time?

"Thank you, Santana," she breathes, as sincerely as she can.

Santana finally looks at her. "I want to do the same thing here," she explains. "With us." Santana settles into the large swivel chair, and leans forward, eyes on Rachel as she speaks in a tone that is confident and firm. "I want to hear you raw and emotional… no one does it like you do, Rachel." Santana's palms open and she straightens, motioning to her mountain of equipment. "And then I do what I do with the beats and a harmonizing chorus."

She's going to sing with her then. Rachel smiles. "Sounds like a winning combination," she answers honestly and is rewarded by an excited, gorgeous smile.

They share a quiet moment of appreciation, before Santana turns once again to her interface. "Listen to this."

Rachel waits, literally on the edge of her seat as she watches Santana in her element, slender fingers flying. Suddenly little waves begin to pulse on the monitor and the bass speakers thump with notes, a melody that is synthesized into a catchy, quick beat. Santana lets it play, bobbing her head to the rhythm, and then reaches for a piece of paper that she leans forward to hand to Rachel.

It's scribbled with lyrics, half written. "I figured we could work on that together," Santana say. "Since I got myself a genius lyricist right here."

Rachel can't tell if she's kidding or being sincere, because yes, Rachel wrote Get it Right, but she also wrote My Headband, and she knows Santana's never quite forgiven her for that.

Still, the music is inviting, and Rachel discovers herself humming along to the notes that Santana's inscribed, feeling the melody out with her vocal chords, sounding out the words on her tongue.

It's a surprisingly soothing tone, dipping over the mixed beats a little like a surfboard slipping serenely through waves.

"You like it?" Santana asks.

Rachel's head lifts. "I like it," she rasps, but it feels like an understatement.

Santana's throat bobs with a hard swallow. There's a moment where Santana just smiles at her, so pleased and perfect, and then suddenly she lifts her hand and offers her the floor. "So sing it for me."

Santana turns up the speakers, and matches the power of Rachel's voice as she looks down at the half scribbled lyrics and lets the music flow.

Her heart trembles, her eyes shine, and as Santana nods happily. She joins in, taking the harmony, matching her voice so beautifully Rachel wonders if it's possible that feeling like she's gone back home can come from a person… from a song… not a place at all.

* * *

They didn't write the world's most amazing love song. It's a pop song with an infectious beat and a chorus that's so simple it almost feels TOO simple, but the power comes from the fact that they've written a ballad matched to a dance song.

It's late and they forgot to eat.

Rachel's throat is scratchy. She's worn out and her body is sluggish, but when Santana plays the finished rough cut of the song one more time, it fills her with such a sense of pride she finds herself sinking into Santana's side, giggling with happiness.

"Fuck," Santana laughs, sliding an arm around her waist to keep her curled up against her, and Rachel knows she feels it too.

She's taking slow, tired steps toward Santana's foyer. The song demo has been sent to the suits and her agents. Rachel decides she doesn't want to think about what the inevitable notes will be. Even if they hate it, she thinks it's been worth it.

Tonight has been incredible.

"You know it's funny." Rachel's got her purse on her shoulder, she wavers in the hall. Santana's walking with her, and Rachel thinks it's terrifyingly sweet, how carefully Santana's guiding her to the door, considering she's sure Santana's just as exhausted as she is.

"What is?"

Rachel hums, mouth flattening as she considers her words. "Don't get me wrong, you're insanely talented," she concedes, and shrugs her shoulder in apology. "But I never took you for a song writer." Santana's eyes narrow, debating whether or not to take offense. Rachel grins. "Well you know, except for 'Trouty Mouth'."

Santana snorts good-naturedly, and it makes Rachel chuckle, pressing back against the empty wall of the hallway. "Well, you know, not everyone can match the brilliance of 'My Headband'."

"My Headband is a classic," she retorts. "And your ex-girlfriend LOVED it."

"If you start singing it I'm going to kill you," Santana warns. "Brittany wouldn't stop playing that damn song on loop in high school. Drove me fucking nuts."

Rachel's mouth quirks again, but that smile fades. It really is late. Rachel has a meeting tomorrow, and she knows Santana is due to be on a plane to Florida for some concert event.

The crickets battle with the occasional vroom of a car passing by. Rachel stares at the closed wooden door, and yet can't quite bring herself to push off the wall.

She doesn't want to go yet. Instead, Rachel gnaws quietly on her lower lip, and once again stares at her friend. "This is a good song, isn't it?"

Santana's lips purse. She possibly notes the vulnerable expression on Rachel's face, because her expression softens and she comes closer to slip fingers slip in her own, tugging lightly, until she breaks the loose hold over her chest and their interlocked hands hang between them.

"Look," Santana says, firm and quiet. "This may be a hit and it may not be." Thumbs slide delicately over her fingers. Rachel sighs raggedly and studies the way their fingers mold together, rubbing gently together, skin against skin. "I'm not a mind reader, but every song is like a person. It has to have a soul. And this song has soul. It's got a little bit of me," she whispers, bringing their hands to rest briefly against her chest, "And a little bit of you." The fingers now press against Rachel's breast, right where her heart beats.

As it on command, Rachel's heartbeat trips unsteadily. She smiles mutely, eyes blinking with moisture because she gets what Santana's trying to say. She does. What they've done is special. Santana's taken the best part of them both and created a song from the pieces. Because songs, Santana explained flippantly, are like people. And if people are like songs, then Rachel is a ballad. Bold and dramatic and maybe a little too sappy for her own good.

As for Santana? Well, Santana is just a crazy mix of all the right beats. Rachel studies the beautiful face intensely; notes the way their fingers have interlocked, how close Santana is to her now. There's solid wall at Rachel's back, but Santana is now less than a foot away. She smells her perfume; feels her heat. "So if a person is like a song, then what's a duet?" Rachel asks in a low, careful voice.

Santana's breath goes a bit unsteady. Rachel swallows at the reaction, and lowers her attention to the fingers that play idly with her own, smoothing delicately over the tip of her digits, until there's a thread of sensation against her sensitive inner wrists.

"I don't know," Santana murmurs, eyes on their fingers and the way they dance together. Dark eyes lift and connect with her own. "What does it feel like to you, Rachel?"

What does it feel like?

Santana's fingers drift away from her own. Hands smooth against her bare forearms, and suddenly the palms are pressing in on either side of her. Rachel's fingers are now lightly pressing against Santana's flat stomach. She skims instinctively, and feels the muscles underneath the shirt jolt in reaction.

Rachel licks her lips. The air is thick around them, and Rachel wonders if it should be suffocating, to have Santana so close. "Honestly?" she half whispers, as she catches the fabric of Santana's shirt between her knuckles, elbows sliding back to pull her in that much closer.

"Do we do anything else?" Santana asks, but that mouth is so much closer than it was before, and Rachel sees hooded eyes and long lashes, and then nothing at all, because her eyes have drifted shut at the brush of lips against her own.

The jolt strikes inside of her like flint. Her fingers flex, her mouth opens, and Santana partakes greedily, kissing her with an experienced hunger that inflames Rachel's arousal.

Fingers drag into Santana's nape, drawing her in closer, and Rachel's tongue slips wetly between Santana's parted lips, sighing when Santana groans in reaction. Rachel's heart pounds; her head pulses and when an open palm boldly slides against her clothed breast, catching against her erect nipple, the buck of her hips brings her back to reality.

She gasps harshly, so intensely Santana breaks away.

The silence is deafening. Rachel blinks, breathing deeply. She looks at those swollen lips, feels the way her mouth tingles, the way her heated and aroused body throbs for more.

But Santana just stares at her, eyes brown and wild, expression hooded and impossible to read.

Suddenly Rachel can't feel anything but panic.

"I should go," she whispers unsteadily.

Santana doesn't say anything, doesn't do anything, when Rachel breaks free from her hold and heads shakily to the door. She lets Rachel leave and never says a word, and Rachel can't even begin to comprehend why it matters, but it does.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Thanks everyone for their patience. I know so many people are waiting for updates on the other three in progress fics, and please know I haven't forgotten about them. I've adopted a new strategy of focusing on one fic at a time to get them done, and that means that although the wait may be a bit longer for your fic of choice, once it's got it's turn, the updates will come faster. This may end up being a four parter based on length, but so far my outline still says three chapters. Please enjoy!**

* * *

**PART 02.**

_I can taste the fake, the shame_

_I've heard this story before_

_And while you dig yourself a hole_

_It's the same shit, different girl_

Repeat - David Guetta, featuring Jessie J.

* * *

Paralyzed with anxiety, Rachel has to take several deep breaths, filling her lungs to capacity with desperately needed oxygen and pushing them back out again, before she regains the mental and physical serenity to be able to drive.

That meditated calm lasts for about five minutes, enough for Rachel to back out of Santana's driveway and make it past the traffic at Wilshire and Westwood, before her tongue glides against her swollen, tingling chapped lips in distraction and she's suddenly overtaken by the acute physical memory of Santana sucking sweetly on her lower lip.

Rachel doesn't see a light change from yellow to red until the very last minute. Scrambling, she slams down hard on the brake, something that the Lexus behind her does not appreciate, and makes it known with a loud, angry honk. Rachel can only offer a weak wave in the mirror as apology.

She's acutely aware of her right nipple. It feels so achingly SENSITIVE. She's shifting in her seat because the little make out session she has just engaged in has turned her on a distracting amount, and now she's going to die in a horrible car accident or the victim of road rage in West Los Angeles because she can't keep her mind from going Santana-sexual.

"Okay," she breathes, more to her heated body and her furiously beating heart than to anything else. "It's okay. It's gonna be okay. Let's just… call reinforcements." The light goes green, and Rachel steps gingerly on the gas, and instructs the blue tooth to dial the last number that called her.

Her eyes fixate on the road, but her teeth chew hard on her raw lower lip as the phone takes it's time to connect the number.

She taps nervously at the steering wheel until the line connects and she hears a groggy and grumpy, "Rachel, it is 10AM in the morning!"

Kurt sounds furious, tired, hung over, and very displeased.

Rachel doesn't care. "That is a perfectly reasonable time to call someone!"

"Not when you went to bed at 8AM!" Kurt snaps, and Rachel rolls her eyes.

"Well that's not my fault!" she exclaims. "You're the one that embraced the gay club twink stereotype!"

"I'm hanging up now," he grumbles, apparently too hung over to be patient.

"No, Kurt please!" she pleads, because the panic is really starting to set in now and it's making her a little color blind; not the best thing when one is dealing with traffic lights. "I really need to talk to you. I'm kinda freaking out right now."

She reminds herself to breathe, huffing in and out and keeping a wild eye out for the freeway entrance as she waits for Kurt to decide to hear her out. And he better. Distance shouldn't matter with one's best Gay.

He sighs in defeat.

"Is this a freak out like 'I don't know which song to audition with' or a freak out like 'I have another premiere and no one will style me'?"

Rachel swallows painfully against the lump that's lodged itself in her throat and forces herself to speak. "It's a 'I Made Out With Santana' freak out."

The loud thud, flop and squeal that amplifies over the speaker makes her jump in her seat. Rachel's hands stay carefully in the ten and two position on the wheel, but she notes with wild eyes that her knuckles look a little white.

"… Go on."

Rachel sighs raggedly, and finds herself brushing her hands rapidly through her bangs in a nervous tick. "I went to her place tonight to work on our song," she begins, because it seems the easiest place to start. "And … I don't know it just… somehow we ended up kissing in her hallway before I was supposed to leave." The other line remains quiet, but Rachel finds she's lost her ability to care, because now she's just thinking about Santana's tongue swiping against her tingly mouth and that hand against her breast. "Like… heavy kissing," she admits. "With tongue." Again, there's no response. "And she felt up my breast." Rachel presses her lips together. "Kurt?"

"…How does that even happen?" he sputters so loudly into the speaker she actively winces.

"I don't know!" Rachel snaps, frantic. She's thoroughly flabbergasted and bewildered. Her heart is hammering like she's about to have a heart attack and she's legitimately weak-kneed, and… there's this crippling panic that won't go away and insists she go back and reanalyze every bit of interaction that's occurred between her and Santana since Drew's party. "It's just… ever since we met up again we've been texting back and forth…" Rachel trails off as she recalls the late night text sessions, the smiles that everyone would comment on and the way her stomach twisted in delicious pleasure with each increasingly playful reply. She also distinctly remembers referring to this evening as a date. Her stomach twists now in very different fashion. "And I now realize in retrospect that it may have come off like flirting."

"Oh My God, I'm too hung over for this."

"And then we wrote this song," she confesses, and once again the echo of that refrain washes over. Her voice breaks with the emotion, and Rachel sighs, head falling back against her head rest as she considers the music. "- and… Kurt it's just… somehow the music is like a _drug_ and she has this tiny intimate little studio where it was just us and this song and I swear to God, Kurt, it's like she leaks pheromones because she's so beautiful and then we sang together and-"

"Okay stop!" Kurt snaps, ripping into her subconscious just enough to bring her back to her reality and make her realize that somehow she has managed to get herself back to her condo and is now sitting in her assigned parking space with the car running. "You're going screechy and it's rupturing my eardrums."

Rachel's head flops back again. She moans in tortured agony.

"Calm down," Kurt instructs her, and she nods blindly, waiting for her best friend to get his bearings on this and react accordingly. "Just… Okay, you and Santana made out," he says finally, and God, it sounds even more ridiculous when HE says it. "Did you like it?"

Rachel's eyes open. She considers the question, and feels her heart beat erratically in response. "… No?" she says, sounding out the word awkwardly, like she has marbles in her mouth.

"Rachel."

She groans, feeling the lie sink back inside of her with her along with her scruples. "Of course I liked it, Kurt!" she snaps miserably. "She's a fantastic kisser, we all knew that. Brittany wouldn't shut up about it in high school," she adds with more annoyance than what should be appropriate, considering she used to think Brittany and Santana were actually kind of romantic, in a gorgeous slutty lesbian kind of way.

"True," Kurt muses, and Rachel rolls her eyes. "But are you attracted to her?"

Rachel sighs, thumbing against the leather of her steering wheel as she considers the question. "I don't know," she mumbles, and then shakes her head because she knows herself better than that. "Maybe?" she concedes instead. "I mean it's been years, but…" The image of Santana is conjured up easily. She's gorgeous, confident, a little tragic and ridiculously talented. "I've never quite seen her like this and…she's a woman, Kurt! And she's not just any woman she's… she's Santana!"

"… You of all people are having a gay panic right now?" he drawls flatly.

"This isn't a gay panic," she snaps because just the thought is ridiculous.

"Then why are you freaking out?" Kurt is so calm it's infuriating.

"Because the tabloids are already all over us! Because we're friends! Because I have a career to worry about and I don't want to be Anne Heche!" she adds. That's an actual phobia now. Rachel distractedly wonders if it could be a classified condition – death by Anne Heche.

"…Allrighty."

Rachel thinks about that tabloid; that ugly magazine that Santana shook so gleefully in her face. It creates a sour emotion that tastes like nausea on her tongue."Look," she breathes thickly. "Santana has this… reputation okay?" Rachel chapped lips actively hurt now, but she ignores them as she feels the emotion come close to gutting her a little. "She goes through girls the way you go through… belts. And I don't want to be a notch on her belt!"

"Because of your career or because you actually like her?"Kurt asks, and it's annoying, how he's trying to position this.

"… my career, Kurt!" Her voice snaps like flint. "Santana and I are just friends. You know I'm with Troy!" Troy, her , her boyfriend that she just accidentally cheated on. Rachel groans, slumping back in her seat. "Oh shit, Troy!"

"You just now remembered you have a boyfriend?"

"Shut up! I barely see him!" It's not much of a justification, but it's all Rachel has.

"Okay, look calm down. You're freaking out over nothing."

A dry, annoyed laugh blurts out of her. "I'm not-"

"Santana is a bitch but she isn't a predator," Kurt says firmly, and it shuts Rachel up completely. "Just nip it in the bud," he advises. "Your friendship will be fine if this is as far as you take it."

His tone is so even, the sentences so simple and logical, like that's all there is to it. The part of Rachel that likes to be difficult about this sort of thing wants to fight it, but she finds she doesn't have the strength. "… Right," she whispers, and thinks about Santana and that gorgeous song that she wrote just for her.

God, it would be so much less confusing if just the very thought of it didn't leave her breathless.

"Tell her that you were caught up in your music moment and it was a mistake and move on."

Rachel sits quietly in her car, fingers running idly over the knob that has placed the car into Park.

"That sounds… reasonable," she admits.

"I know. God, I'm so hungover," he adds, sounding so completely miserable, it's affecting.

Rachel's suddenly overwhelmed. She misses him. She misses him a lot. She wishes he were here in the car with her, so she could whisper that she wants to be his boyfriend and hold him close.

He's safe and sweet and she knows exactly where she stands with him.

"Thanks, Kurt," she whispers quietly, doing her best to mask the sudden tears that taint her voice.

Kurt takes a moment to respond, and Rachel wonders if he's heard it anyway. "You're welcome, Rachel," he says, softer than before. "And for the record? I'm going to give you SO much crap later once I've actually woken up and processed this."

Rachel laughs, chest rising and falling in weak giggles before she sighs, pressing her palm against her mouth and nodding.

"I guess that's fair."

* * *

At 7AM the next morning, Rachel, fresh out of the shower and scrubbed clean, sits with her hair wrapped in a towel and studies her phone.

Rachel's nearly religious moisturizing ritual has been all but forgotten as she considers exactly how she could even begin to bring up what needs to be said.

She has had a sleepless night, and it's convenient to blame THAT for her current bout of anxious indecision, instead of the tight knot of nerves that burns in her stomach.

The little dash on her cellphone just blinks at her mockingly as her thumb hovers over the call button. She's been staring at Santana's name for the past five minutes.

Rachel thinks she knows Santana well. They were roommates for years, and possibly friends before that (though high school was notoriously inconsistent when it comes to their friendship), but Rachel understands that time has changed quite a few things for them both.

Particularly in how they view each other. Rachel can't imagine that Santana would have considered pressing her against a wall and kissing her as seductively as she did, even in her drunkest moments, back in New York.

And now it had happened while they were both sober.

Rachel hadn't known what to expect in the wake of it, especially considering the way she had fled so quickly afterwards. There had been nothing from Santana all night, and Rachel knows at least part of her inability to sleep came from the way she obsessively checked her for phone for confirmation of that.

She knows she needs to take the advice that Kurt gave her, but God, it would be so much easier if she had a cue from Santana on how to respond. She had no idea on what Santana is thinking, and if Rachel takes a gamble and sends her a text that comes off as condescending and stupid… well…

Despite the confusion maelstrom of emotion that is currently coursing through her, Rachel is aware of herself to understand that losing Santana's friendship so quickly after she's found it is something she does not want.

Still, she and Santana have never been anything but honest with each other, and Rachel knows Santana deserves that honesty now. She deserves the truth.

If only Rachel knew what the truth was.

She thought she did. She had an entire text scribbled out, ready to be sent out that was both formal and friendly and polite, making light of the situation and also making it quite clear it wasn't going to happen again.

And then she got Santana's text this morning.

There's a tiny welt on the back of her lower lip, a result of her chewing. It aches like a bruise, and Rachel's tongue runs over it thoughtfully as she studies the message.

Santana's text is devastatingly simple: _Had a great time last night._

That's it. That's all.

It's very nearly driven Rachel mad, because she doesn't know what it means. Did Santana have a good time because they wrote a song together, truly connected again as friends and is happy to have her back in her life? Or did Santana have a good time because minutes before Rachel fled her apartment they exchanged deep, hungry kisses and Rachel became intimately familiar with the slightly rough and tempting texture of Santana's tongue?

God, Rachel wants to call her.

She wants to talk this out. She wants to express her fears and hope like hell Santana will listen to her and give her that tough love truth she's so very used to.

But God, what would she even say? 'Santana, this is catastrophic for my career, and I want to forget last night ever happened, but the thing is, I may have touched myself after I came home last night because thinking about you kissing me got me really wet, and now thinking about your hand on my boob keeps getting the nipple hard. It's really annoying and this can't go anywhere anyway because I can't be Anne Heche or hole in a belt.'

She's more than certain Santana would have no idea how to respond to that.

Rachel groans, flinging the towel off her now half-dried, messy hair and letting it drop to the floor, not caring at all about the wetspot it will leave on the floor. She knows she's a coward, but she presses the text option instead.

Carefully, she types out her text: _Me too. Listen, Santana. About the kiss... It was a mistake. I hope it doesn't change anything between us. _

Rachel reads it out loud, and shakes her head miserably at the tone. It sounds… distant. Polite. Too formal, like Santana is some casual acquaintance and not the woman who held her during her pregnancy scare and promised her everything was going to be okay.

She intends to rewrite it, but suddenly her phone buzzes in her hand. The unexpected vibration causes an already skittish Rachel to jump. She loses her grip on her phone, and with a yelp she scrambles, fumbling for it.

In trying to steady it with her fingers, she accidentally presses the send button, and off the text goes.

"Fuck!" she rasps miserably, and has no time to do more than that, because her phone is actively ringing with another caller.

Rachel's eyes shut tight and she palms her face in despair. "Hi JoAnn," she sighs, holding her phone to her ear.

She regrets that immediately when there's a high pitched squeal on the other end.

"Oh My GOD," JoAnn shouts, and Rachel winces, pulling the phone away from her ear to save her eardrums. "I LOVE it," she says, so oddly vibrant Rachel can actually picture her skipping around her office in those stiletto heels she's so very fond of. "And more importantly, Columbia loves it. I have good news. Get in the office right now!"

"Wait-"

"Now means NOW, Rachel Berry!" JoAnn orders, and then disconnects the call.

Rachel inhales deeply, and though she knows she needs to get moving, she can't help but glance back down on her phone.

A little note says the text has been read, but there's no response.

* * *

Santana texts her two hours later, and though Rachel knows she should be focusing on her manager, she immediately swipes at her phone with her finger to open the message.

_Of course it won't change anything. Come on, Rachel. You're not the first straight girl who got a little too hot and bothered over me doing my thing. We're good, I promise. _

It's friendly and sweet and courteous, and cocky enough to be exactly what Santana would say.

Rachel isn't sure why she isn't more relieved that this is apparently a run of the mill experience for her friend. Maybe it's the fact that despite her paranoia of being perceived as just another straight girl ready to go gay for one night with her lady killer friend, she's become exactly that.

And Santana finds it amusing.

It makes Rachel wonder how far Santana would have allowed that kiss to have gone, had Rachel herself not stopped it.

"You, my dear, are having a VERY good day."

She would beg to disagree.

Still, Rachel shifts her tense body, finding a better fit on the awkward and expensive balance ball seat that fitness-obsessed JoAnn forces her guests to use whenever she comes into her UTA office, and manages to offer a weak smile.

"It's good, isn't it?" she asks, attempting to be enthusiastic about it, because listening to the song in JoAnn's office proves the song is just as amazing even without Santana's expensive sound system, and that's very very reassuring.

"Granted, I'm not a music person," JoAnn admits. "But for a demo, I think it's nearly flawless. Columbia has a few notes," she adds, and Rachel suppresses the urge to roll her eyes. Of course they do. "But they want to book a studio right away to record the master. This may be a real hit!" JoAnn claps her hands together like a seal, but her peppy smile fades slightly when Rachel simply purses her lips and recrosses her legs. "So why the hell do you look like someone forced you to eat a puppy? This is huge!"

It is. It's really, really huge. In all the talk about her album and its direction that's occurred in the last few months, there has never been talk about there being an actual genuine potential Billboard hit on it. Rachel's voice is suited to ballads and powerful love songs, but somehow she and Santana have found this magical combination that elevates her strengths and makes it… danceable.

And true, maybe Santana has done this before, maybe Rachel isn't the first woman who's experienced an odd crisis of sexuality after a night of music bonding with her friend, but it shouldn't diminish that the result of that is a really_really_ good thing for her.

"I'm sorry," she says, and straightens her shoulders, grinning as sincerely as she can for the benefit of her tireless manager. "Honestly, that's great. Santana and I worked really hard on this!"

There's something in her tone that seems to catch JoAnn's insanely accurate suspicions. The older woman pauses, peers at her from over her glasses and says quite snappily, "Just as long as you two didn't work TOO hard."

It's an insinuation that would have sounded ten times more ridiculous had last night not happened the way it did. "I told you that we're just friends," she snaps, because it's true. Santana's answering text had assured her of that.

"Just checking," JoAnn says, and drops the matter with the happiness of an ADHD affected executive. "Oh!" She reaches across her desk for a magazine. "Did you see the Star?!"

And she actually shakes that god-damn magazine at her, in an almost perfect mimic of the way Santana did it the night before.

Rachel's stomach turns with distaste, but she swallows down the bile and her angry remark. "I did, actually," she says instead, determined to keep her voice steady and light.

JoAnn's eyes practically gleam with pride. "Troy's manager is a little pissed," she confesses, and shrugs it off. "But who cares! This is a gold mine for us."

Rachel shakes her head, suddenly disgusted. "Yeah, I mean when's the last time I was on the cover of Star?"

"Exactly!" JoAnn says, pointing happily at her, before swiveling in her chair and hollering at her assistant to buy her ten more copies of the tabloid.

Rachel opens her phone, and re-reads Santana's text.

_Great_, she texts back_.Glad to hear it. _

She doesn't know what else to say.

* * *

The studio that has been booked to record the song is not intimate and it's not tiny. There are no post-its peppered everywhere, and all the equipment is spotless and shiny. There is a faint smell of weed that makes Rachel's nose wrinkle, and instead of a crazy intimate session between two artists collaborating, there are no less than ten men in suits crowded into the booth behind a hapless engineer in a wrinkled t shirt and faded jeans watching her, along with JoAnn, her music agent, and another guy dressed in Designer Douche that introduces himself to Rachel as Santana's producer.

"Let's get started!" he says, and motions to the lonely stool in the wide, open recording space. Rachel feels suddenly like an exhibit at the zoo.

She swallows hard and stares wordlessly at the closed door. After a moment, she carefully leans forward to speakinto the mike. "Shouldn't we wait for Santana?"

Behind the glass, the other suits confer. Muted in the studio, Rachel can only watch, until Santana's producer pushes the button that will allow her to hear what they are saying and says, "Sorry hon, I thought someone told you. Santana's already recorded the music. We're going to get your vocals, and when she gets back into town we'll lay her over you. We don't need you two together for this. We'll see her when we start working on the music video."

Rachel feels silly, because of course that makes sense. It'show these things are done.

Still, she can't shake the feeling of awkwardness when she takes what feels like an intensely intimate song, and sings it with the same emotional and vulnerability that she used to sing for Santana's ears alone. There are no deep dark brown eyes to stare into, no quickening of her breath or flush in her cheeks that reminds her how SPECIAL this moment is, how CONNECTED she feels, not just to the music but to the woman who sits across from her.

She wonders if it affects the quality.

It doesn't seem to, because the execs just drink their coffee and smile happily at her, acting like they don't have a care in the world.

Rachel envies them.

* * *

She's relieved, honestly, to have the condo to herself for the night. She never thought she'd be a beach girl, but Rachel finds she appreciates that patio more than she thought she would have when she moved into the Marina Del Rey high rise.

It's evening, and the air is unseasonably crisp for this time of year, but it's still perfect weather to sit on her patio chair and have an evening drink. She's brought a patchwork blanket with her, a gift from Kurt, and wraps it around herself as she continues to sip at her red wine and stares at the horizon.

She's quiet and still, but also very much aware of her furiously beating heart, the way it thumps so tellingly inside of her.

She's thinking about Santana.

Despite their mutual promises that their night together wouldn't affect their friendship, texts betweenshe and Santana have been sporadic. Rachel knows she could be feeling extra sensitive about it all, because Santana never actually ignores her, and she has had legitimate reasons for every single time she's been unresponsive or hard to reach.

For years, Santana's world has been dark clubs, loud music, tiny studios, and sleepless nights. Now that her star has been raised, Rachel knows she doesn't necessarily have to constantly mix new music or DJ concerts or festivals, but it does seem that something Santana likes to do.

Still, things did seem … easier… before the unmentionable kiss, and Rachel wonders if she's perhaps made Santana a little TOO sensitive. Kurt's right: Santana isn't a predator. Not once has the fact that her friend is a lesbian ever been an issue for either of them.

Aside from a few catcalls meant to embarrass her, Santana used to go out of her way to prove that the OPPOSITE was true; that she had NO attraction or designs on Rachel at all.

Maybe all Santana needed was that kiss to reaffirm that stance.

God, just the thought brings up so many old high school insecurities that Rachel has to push the idea out of her mind as quickly as it floats in.

Honestly; simply, Rachel misses Santana.

It's almost cruel that Santana showed up when she did, how she did, at a moment when Rachel was lonely and aching for a taste of something real. Not only has she had a chance to reconnect with one of her best friends in the world, but she's also gotten to know her in a way that is mind-blowingly intimate.

These last few weeks have been HAPPY, and it's all be shot to hell because of a heat of the moment kiss.

Well… maybe not because of the kiss. Maybe it's because of a stupid text. Because of Rachel herself and being so… Rachel about it.

She knows she has to fix this. Her text was the one that set the tone for what this relationship is in danger of becoming, and she knows that Santana is only following suit. She's the one who freaked out at the idea of her 'pussy getting Santana'd', as her friend so indelicately put it.

Yes, her career is important. Rachel's been working for this kind of success her entire life, and it hasn't been easy. There's been a lifetime of 'no's and very few 'yes's.

But Santana's friendship has been her first taste of something REAL in this town, and she knows she'll regret it if she doesn't try to salvage it.

Rachel takes another long drink, letting the taste of the liquid linger on her tongue as she flips through her phone and pulls up Santana's contact information.

Another long gulp, and she finally presses the necessary sequence on her phone to get the phone dialing.

"Hello!" It's Santana, sounding both breathless and distracted, in the middle of a laugh.

"Santana?"

"Rachel!" To hear her friend through the noise surrounding her is a challenge. There's activity that Rachel can make out - fuzzy music, a tremendous bass, the distinct crowded sound of laughter and talking.

Rachel bites her lip; oddly timid. "Is this a bad time!"

"No, God no! I'm just.. Hold on." Santana's voice muffles as she says something quite obviously not directed at Rachel. "Sorry," she says after a moment, crisper and cleaner than before. The music and crowd noise has faded slightly. "I found a room. But fuck, I think it's like… S&M themed or something…"

The excited whisper doesn't sound like Santana at all, and it makes Rachel's brown furrow. "Santana-"

She's cut off by a huge gasp. "Holy shit, Rachel there's like, manacles on the wall!"

Rachel hears distinct clanks, and Santana obnoxiously giggling, treating them like toys.

"Is S&M themed bedrooms a common occurrence in the life of a superstar DJ?" she asked, determinedly casual.

"God, I wish! Can you imagine?" Santana laughs, voice husky with use, signifying that it's been a long day. There's the clanking again, along with some garbled chatter and laughter that isn't from Santana. She still isn't alone. "It'll be on the second floor next to the gym. Do you have one? Is it pink?"

"Why would it be pink?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" It's insane how good it feels, to hear Santana's dry and teasing tone, teasing with affection and intimacy.

It's silly that she's almost choked up and Rachel rubs her fingers together idly in an effort to ground herself, before she admits with a thick, vulnerable voice, "Santana, I miss you."

"Aw, shorty! I miss you too!" is Santana's chipper, immediate response.

Rachel blinks, thrown by the flippant, sweet remark. "Are you drunk?"

"Just a little bit." Rachel's mouth twitches, shoulders slouching in disappointment. "I'm sorry," Santana laughs. "This girl kept making me do body shots off of her."

It doesn't sound like quite the torture ritual Santana's making it out to be. "And this is a problem for you?"

"Saying no would be rude," Santana answers matter-of-factly.

"Since when do you care about being rude?"

"Since I've come to discover that Curious Straight Girls are fucking INSANE!" Santana retorts, and maybe it isn't an actual swipe at Rachel, but it makes her wince anyway. Santana seems to notice, because there's a moment of stalled quiet before she blurts, "And how's the Troy-midget?"

Oh. Rachel rubs at her chest, struggling to find a comfortable position as she breathes in unsteadily.

"He's good. I think," she adds, because aside from a text a day or so ago she realizes she doesn't actually know and hasn't actually cared to find out. "I mean I dunno, he's been on a movie shoot in Montreal for the last few weeks-" She actually expects Santana to question her a little about that, but instead she hears a loud shout and a large crash, before a peal of laughter invades the speaker.

"Santana…" Rachel feels frighteningly inconsequential.

"Hi Rachel," she hears after a moment. Santana's breathless, clearly covering up a laugh. "Sorry! It's just-"

Rachel feels awkward and vulnerable; an outsider who can't even look into the world that she hasn't been invited to - just listen. "I actually called because I had news," she begins, and hates that she sounds almost meek about it. "But if this is a bad time-"

"What?No! No, just gimme a minute."

"Seriously, Santana-"

"Rachel," Santana's tone is firm. "Just give me a minute."

Suppressing a sigh, Rachel does, listening for long minutes as she hears hushed mumbles, and another odd cackle, before the sound is muffled entirely and Santana comes back on the line. "Okay, now I'm really alone." It's a little adorable how breathlessly earnest a drunk Santana is. "What's up?"

Rachel bites her lip, a sudden excitement knotting her stomach."Remember that lead in 'Into the Woods' I was up for?"

"If you didn't get it then I'm going to fucking murder someone," Santana says, so seriously that Rachel can't help but laugh.

The excitement that she's been trying to tap down suddenly explodes, and the grin is impossible to quell as she laughs, "I got it!"

"That's awesome!" Santana nearly shouts, and Rachel shakes her head in bemusement.

"You are so drunk."

"Oh shut up, I'm just happy for you. Rachel, that's like… a big big deal!"

"It is," she admits, because she can't be humble right now. "It's a big deal!"

"Well then we need to celebrate when I'm back in town!" Santana sounds so genuinely HAPPY for her. Rachel's emotions have been a roller coaster of highs and lows lately, but it's still kinda silly how infectious that happiness feels.

"Sounds like a plan!" she agrees, and then finds herself lingering, gnawing lightly on her lower lips as she hesitates. "I was thinking though… how about instead of an LA party, we make it a New York one?" Santana doesn't reply, and so Rachel hurries to continue her explanation. "I have to move there for a few months to start rehearsals and I was thinking…"

"You wanna stay in the loft, don't you?" Santana's voice is flat; resigned.

Rachel shrugs. "For old time's sake."

"Sure, Rachel. That's no problem." Rachel blinks at the easy agreement, and then understands why when Santana says suddenly, "Hey listen, I gotta go, but I'll have my assistant call you and work it out, okay?"

She hears it now, how the noises seem louder now. Wherever Santana managed to hide, she's been discovered. "Oh. Um... Okay." But she hurries on. "Santana."

"Yeah?"

"Did you hear about the song?"

"I heard that they liked it," Santana answers, warm and smug.

"Yeah," she repeats, shaking her head, because that's an understatement. "They liked it a lot. They want to shoot a music video and with the buzz it's getting…" Rachel licks her lips and stares at her glass of wine, watching the way the red liquid appears almost black as the sky darkens around her. "It may have been what got me this part so… I just…"

Once again, Rachel feels that awkwardness, because with that song comes memories of that night, and with that night comes those FEELINGS that remain lodged inside of her. They're addictive, intense… and Rachel remembers so vividly.

"Santana," she begins, because it's driving her crazy. "About that night-"

"Shit, God, I'm coming!" Rachel jumps, nearly topping her chair over and spilling her wine. "Rachel, I'm so sorry," Santana cuts in, soft and quick. "I gotta go. I'll call you later, okay?"

It's crazy how empty that promise seems. Rachel deflates, and finds her courage spilling away with her wine. "Right, okay. Bye, Santana."

"Bye Rach- Hey mother fuckers, I was talking-"

The call disconnects in the middle of Santana's protest.

* * *

Rachel receives a call the next day from a surprisingly eloquent young man who introduces himself as Santana's personal assistant. It throws Rachel, who had no idea he even existed before this point. He waits approximately two seconds for her to process this before he's suddenly rattling off a bunch of questions and orders regarding the loft in New York.

His name is Nathan. When he shows up at her condo to drop off the keys to the New York loft, she discovers that he's actually a gorgeous young man of Indian descent, with an athletic build and eyebrows that would be bushy if not for the obvious fact that he keeps them trimmed. He's gay, which means he's infatuated with her and her career, which is never, ever gets old for Rachel Berry. She gladly spends most of her afternoon answering questions like what it's like to work with Patti Lupone, and describing what Eden Espinosa's warm up ritual is.

He finds one of Troy's guitars, an impromptu purchase that Troy once bought on a whim and hardly ever touches, and launches through a complicated chord progression that makes Rachel's eyes widen with surprise. Turns out, he's not just Santana's personal assistant, but an aspiring DJ and musician that Santana has been mentoring.

Their afternoon devolves into an impromptu jam session when he duets with her on an acoustic version of Justin Timberlake's Mirrors.

He likes it so much he asks if he can film it, and the next thing she knows, their earnest little duet has been uploaded onto YouTube on his channel, after he delivers a squealing intro that makes her blush.

He's a sweetheart, and privately it makes her feel better that Santana has someone like him with her. Buzzed on the high of a good performance and a little wine, she tells him so.

"I honestly think the only reason she hired me was because I didn't try and hit on her," he confesses.

"While I'm sure that helped, you're obviously very talented," Rachel says, because that's probably exactly what it was. "I'm glad she sees it and appreciates it."

"Oh she's such a bitch and sometimes she treats me like a dick, which we both know she has no use for," he says, strumming the guitar for emphasis. Rachel bursts out laughing, and decides against commenting. "But she's legit. She gets the music, you know? She once told me people are like songs and that like… stuck with me."

Rachel presses her lips together and nods quietly. "Yeah," she whispers, raspier than she anticipated. "It stuck with me too."

* * *

_Good going, Berry._ Santana texts her later that night. _My assistant is in love with you. Now he won't shut up about you and your so-called talent. Like I didn't hear enough of that shit in high school and New York._

Rachel reads the text during drinks with some girlfriends, and finds herself laughing quietly to herself. _Tell him I'm in love with him too. _

_Goddamn,_ Santana texts back a moment later, _And you uploaded a cover to his youtube channel? What the fuck? Why are you encouraging his famewhoring?_

Rachel's lips press together. She listens for a moment, as her friend beside her chatters on about her date the night before, before she quietly lowers her head to respond. _Because he's talented and you know that. That's why you hired him, isn't it?_

_Actually, I hired him because he was basically you and Kurt's love child. And the bitch does whatever I want. _

It's almost sweet, considering the source. Still, she can't resist the urge to tease. _ And here I was thinking you were the submissive one. _

It's cheeky, almost too cheeky, considering the state of things. Rachel's heart pounds a little unsteadily, until Santana's text pops up.

_What the hell? Where did that come from? _

She flushes. _Nevermind._, she types back, losing her nerve completely. She straightens, and reaches for her glass of water, a smile on her face as her friend turns to her. She nods, and does her best to catch up to the conversation.

Her phone buzzes in her hand.

_Miss Rachel Berry, are you insinuating that I liked to be dominated in bed? _

The flush moves past her cheeks and down her throat. Rachel's quiet smile widens, and once again, she begins to type. _You were the ones eyeing those handcuffs, Santana. _

She waits, watching those little dots appear before the text pops up. _Maybe I was just picturing someone else in them. _

Rachel's body unexpectedly throbs. Breathless, she licks her lips. She's not stupid. She knows what they did before they kissed, and she knows what they're doing now.

This is flirting. This is exactly what led up to that kiss… this exchange of energy, innuendo and clever jibes.

But she can't help herself. Buzzed on two glasses of wine and not enough appetizers, Rachel discovers she doesn't want to stop. She wants…

Well, she wants to find out who Santana was picturing in those cuffs. _Anyone in particular? _

_Well apparently I have a type… _

Her cheeks flame. Rachel is well aware of her body and it's reaction to Santana's words. She chews lightly on her bottom lip, testing her own resolve. _I've always been partial to brunettes, myself. _

_You know, I used to be into blondes_, Santana texts, and Rachel's body stiffens. But her friend is still typing, and so Rachel waits. _But I've discovered lately that brunettes do have a certain appeal... _

The grin that curves on her mouth is impossible to suppress.. _Do they now? _she asks.

"Rachel?" She lifts her head and notices three heads turned in her direction.

"What?"

"You do realize that we've asked you the same question like… three times now, right?" Jessica tells her, eyes shining with curiosity. Rachel flushes, well aware of her rudeness.

"Sorry!" She forces herself to put her phone back in her purse.

"Who are you texting?!"

"Troy," she says flippantly,, and immediately feels her muscles clench at the lie. But it's good enough for them. Jessica rolls her eyes, mutters something about 'Young Love' and continues her adventures with the investment banker.

Rachel's phone burns in her purse, but she forces herself to wait until she's excused herself to read what Santana has written.

_They tend to be pretty amazing kissers. _

Immediately, Rachel is transported to the memory – the texture of Santana's lips, the feel of her breath skating against her skin, the swipe of her tongue against her own.

"Fuck," she breathes, because she's wet now, uncomfortably wet, and it's all Santana's fault.

Her heart pounds, but Rachel's filled with this euphoria that feels so much like a high, because Santana is telling her that she liked her kissing her. That their kiss was amazing, and God, it was.

She hasn't forgotten about her kiss. She's touched herself, made herself come with Santana's name on her lips, because of that kiss.

_I definitely don't disagree with that. Kisses like that tend to… linger. _

It's honest, at least. She and Santana have always been honest with each other, and Rachel decides she owes her that. But it's terrifying. Rachel's standing in a bathroom with an elevated heart beat and the weird feeling of standing on some sort of precipice, and it's because of Santana.

_Yeah, they definitely do. _

The heat courses through her again, flooding her with that buzz of temptation. She wants to respond… she wants to take this further… she wants to call Santana and hear that voice and make some sense of this game they're playing.

Someone knocks on the door.

Rachel loses her courage. The phone goes back in her purse, and after a moment to collect herself, Rachel unlocks the private bathroom and smiles at the women waiting, heading back to her friends.

* * *

Later on she realizes that Santana has tweeted her assistant's Mirror duet with the comment, "Talent you wish you had."

She favorites the tweet and retweets it, and finds she can't bring herself to care when JoAnn calls her later that night and barks at her for appearing in some random kid's YouTube video without consulting her first.

* * *

She's homeward bound to New York, with tingling nerves and actual excitement, when she's distracted by a tabloid that one of her first class companions is happily reading.

"Sex and Music" is the headline, and on it are surprisingly clear pictures of Santana in a bikini on a yacht, hands spread possessively around another equally skimpy gorgeously toned Jessie J. 'Santana Lopez and Jessie J put on a show in Miami', the caption reads.

The bisexual pop star wears bright red lipstick, and for a second, that's all Rachel sees, until the reader folds the magazine over and she's treated to a spread of equally distracting images of Santana and her new companion all over each other on that deck, drinks in hand and hard bodies on full display.

"Do you want to read it?"

Rachel blinks, startled until she realizes the reader is actually offering the magazine to her. "I'm done."

Wordlessly, Rachel nods her thanks.

The images are nothing like hers and Santana's. These aren't friendly moments caught and dissected with grainy mobile pics and over eager paparazzi. In one, Santana is actually looking right at the camera, smiling lazily and pointing her middle finger (Blurred of course) defiantly at them, while Jessie J has her red mouth planting lazy kisses on the slope of Santana's neck.

She is putting on a show, and Rachel feels utterly sick over it.

It's easy now, to see what the public sees, what Santana presents – this gorgeous female Lothario who is only too happy to play for the cameras that she supposedly abhors.

The Santana that's splashed on this page wears her sunglasses and make up like a mask, and another woman like an accessory? It's not the Santana she knows.

Suddenly disgusted, Rachel folds the magazine and shoves it into the compartment beside her that holds her designated barf bag.

She remembers the Star magazine, and the argument that resulted from it. "_It'll be old news in like a month_," Santana had told her dismissively. Casually.

Rachel's lips quirk in a bitter, pained smile. It's a lesson she should have learned years ago.

Santana was always right.

* * *

A blonde woman with chin length dirty blonde hair, designer sunglasses, and a wicked smile holds up a hand written sign that says 'R. Berry' at the end of the terminal.

Rachel's steps slow as she studies her friend, accomplished romance author and New York resident Quinn Fabray. It would be easy to be annoyed at how the years seem to only make Quinn more gorgeous. The ghost of Grace Kelly, Jesse once said.

Rachel finds she can't fault her friend for her breathtaking looks. Quinn has earned her happiness and her beauty.

Quinn's discovered her therapy in writing. She writes historical romance that's both torrid and adventurous, and has been adapted into movies more than once. Privately, she's admitted to Rachel that her novels tend to be a variation of spins on the unhealthiest and worst relationships she can think of, macho men and helpless women just waiting to be rescued. It started as a joke, and then she got published.

As a feminist, Quinn is appalled at the way women lap up these dysfunctional stories as the epitome of romance. Rachel suspects that the money more than makes up for it.

"Well," Quinn drawls, as Rachel drags her carry on behind her. "If it isn't Santana Lopez's newest plaything." The smirk she wears is simultaneously annoying and amusing.

"Shut up," Rachel breathes, rolling her eyes and plucking the sign away from her friend. "You know that's just crap made up by the tabloids."

"Duh," Quinn's chuckles gruffly. "But you have to admit the idea is kinda amusing." She arches a brow playfully, and then opens her arms. "Welcome home, Rachel."

If Rachel were any less vulnerable, she'd try and be a little more difficult about this. She's in a sour mood, and she's not in the mood to be teased.

But Quinn has no idea about Santana, about what's happened. Safe in New York, Quinn's only seen tabloids and internet rumors and unlike Kurt, she hasn't believed a word.

Tears sting in her eyes before she's quite ready for it. Rachel blinks them away, and hugs Quinn back hard, resting her head against the strong shoulder and inhaling Quinn's floral, feminine scent. "Thanks, Quinn."

* * *

"So?" Quinn makes sure that the straps in her seat belt are secure before she lets the cab driver pull away from the curb. It's a nervous tick, and it's because years ago, Quinn was nearly paralyzed in an accident while texting and on her way to Rachel's teen bride wedding fiasco. "Now you have to spill."

It's the reason Quinn almost never drives, and why she prefers to fill the time with casual conversation instead of dwelling too much in silence. Rachel always feels a pang of guilt when she notices it. She had been so adamant that Finn was the love of her life and her soul mate, so head strong and so stupid, and Quinn had nearly been killed for it.

"What's up with Pezberry?" Quinn drawls out the word, making it sound as annoying as possible.

She's teasing, but the word settles sourly on Rachel. With a muted shake of her head, she recites a now tired mantra. "Santana and I have always been just friends, Quinn. You know that."

"I know," Quinn says easily. "But you're so easy to annoy. And you didn't exactly fill me in when you ran into her again."

It's a softly accusing tone. Rachel glances up sharply, but Quinn's eyes are on the rapidly changing landscape of buildings and highway around them.

"I know," she admits. "I'm sorry. Things just got a little crazy, and you were on your book tour."

Quinn absorbs that, nodding flippantly before she shifts in her seat and cocks her head curiously. "How is she?"

Those images are still burning in Rachel's mind, and it's left her in a less than charitable mood regarding their mutual friend. "Oh she's great," she sighs peevishly. Quinn's brow cocks, rising above her Kate Spade sunglasses. Rachel rolls her eyes and just shrugs. "She's fantastic. See for yourself." Reaching for her purse, Rachel pulls out the folded magazine that she procured on the plane.

Quinn reaches for it, but her mouth purses in a judgmental smirk that doesn't look like it's directed at Santana or the pictures. "Don't tell me you actually bought this."

"No," Rachel spurts, flushing indignantly. "A guy gave it to me on a plane. And you're one to talk about trashy, Miss Harlequin."

"I write those ironically," Quinn snaps.

"Just shut up and look."

Quinn looks oddly annoyed, but she does what she's told, ever the picture of a graceful lady as she carefully opens the magazine and eyes the spread that features Santana and her bisexual pop star floozy. "_Well_," she says, shaking her head with mirth. She snorts suddenly, and tilts the magazine to show Rachel that picture of Santana flipping off the camera. "_Classy_, Santana," she says, but there's a chuckle in her throat.

"She's definitely given herself a reputation," Rachel admits, quiet and still as she waits.

Quinn just laughs, catching Rachel off guard as she folds the magazine and carelessly tosses it between them. "And you're surprised?"

Rachel isn't sure what exactly to say. "It's just not the Santana I know," she answers quietly.

Quinn's brow furrows. "What Santana do YOU know?" she asks, and it would be so much easier if Rachel could actually see her eyes instead of those dark black sunglasses that cover half of Quinn's face. "Come on, Rachel. Don't you _remember_ Santana?"

"Of course I remember," Rachel snaps. "I know you two had your 'Unholy Trinity' with Brittany, but Santana and I were roommates for more than a year. Even when she was cage dancing, she wasn't like this."

The glasses finally come off, and hazel eyes narrow at her quizzically. "Yeah, and what about high school? Remember that boy-crazy attitude she sported? Bragging about boning Puck? Offering to take Finn's virginity? Stealing Sam from me to parade him around like a blonde monkey? Do you think THAT was the real lady-loving Santana?"

Rachel licks her lips. Her arms cross as she pushes her breath out through her nose in aggravation.

"Wearing a mask is what Santana does," Quinn says, with this even and quiet tone.

But it doesn't make any sense. "Why would she have to do that?" she snaps, because that's stupid. To put on act like this? For what? "She's out now. Everyone knows she's a lesbian. What does she have to hide?"

"God Rachel," Quinn drawls, flat and annoyed now. "I don't know. As a straight girl, why the hell do you put up with that farce of a relationship you have with Troy?"

It's hitting nearly below the belt, and it's a good sucker punch that winds Rachel. She swallows hard, unsure how this escalated into actual sniping.

The cabbie keeps driving, and Quinn puts her glasses on.

"It's not the same thing," Rachel finally admits.

"How would you know?" Quinn asks, eyes back on her window.

Exhausted, Rachel's head falls back against the leather of the seat, and closes her eyes.

* * *

The loft in Chelsea is almost nothing like she remembers. Santana's obviously put money in to it, and it's less a loft now than it is a modern apartment, but the emotion that courses through Rachel the moment she tugs so familiarly on that heavy metal door and hears the screech as it opens is no less powerful.

THIS… THIS is home. Even though expensive lounge chairs and a modern sofa now face a television in the living room that would have been entirely too expensive for them when they were sharing the rent, even if the kitchen features granite counters and a kitchen island instead of a flea market table and an IKEA knife set, the space itself floods Rachel with nostalgia and sudden memories.

She didn't live here long, in retrospect. Barely more than a couple years, and yet, New York was where she FOUND herself. She remade herself. She had pregnancy scares and break ups and this was where she found the courage to remember that she was good enough by herself, just as she was.

Quinn shuts the loft door behind her with a snap, and it's enough to break her momentarily out of her nostalgia. "Wow," she breathes, a ragged chuckle coming out of her as she comes to stand beside Rachel and check out the remodeled apartment. "There's actual walls now?"

Just a few, it turns out. Santana has left the open floor plan more or less intact, but in the space where she and Kurt had sectioned off curtains there are now painted walls. "One's her studio," Rachel says, remembering what Nathan told her. "The other one is the bedroom."

"I see." Quinn steps forward, fingers running lightly over a coffee table. "It's nice. Does it feel weird?" she asks, hair bouncing over her shoulder as she turns and takes in the fact that Rachel has yet to move. "To be here and see it so different?"

Rachel purses her lips and considers her emotions. "Not really," she decides. "I mean it looks different but … the energy feels the same. Does that make sense?"

"I think so." Rachel smiles, and is in the midst of placing her purse on a nearby hook when Quinn suddenly laughs. "Look at this."

Rachel heads over to Quinn, who is now standing and staring at an area of the wall that is plastered with pictures, some in frames, others simply pinned on. Reaching up, Quinn plucks a printed photo from the wall, and shows it to her.

It's of the three of them: Rachel, Quinn and Santana, taken on one of the few weekends that Quinn actually used the Metro pass she had purchased to come hang out at the loft. They are cuddled together, the picture of cuddly drunkenness, cheeks flushed and hair wild. Santana is the only one actually looking at the camera. Quinn has her eyes closed, head tilted against Santana's cheek. Rachel is looking at Santana, poking at the dimple on her cheeks that she makes when her face goes scrunchy.

"Oh wow." She takes it from Quinn, studying the image and shaking her head in bemusement. "I can't believe she still has that."

"That was a good weekend," Quinn muses, and Rachel laughs breathlessly, nodding as she lets Quinn take the picture back.

"It really was," she agrees, and moves forward to look at the rest of the pictures. Some of them are familiar. There's a few of herself and Kurt, snapshots of loft life. The three of them dancing or singing or just posing together like the oddly fitted three amigos they became. There's a few more of Brittany, selfies and a couple of her in various locales, blow a kiss at the camera. They've clearly kept up their friendship – the pictures look recent.

There's also others that show a glimpse into the life that Santana has now. Quite a few pop, hip hop and R&B stars show up in intimate moments, arms slung around Santana's shoulder or photobombing a picture of her bending over her mixing board.

The most striking photo is one that's been framed. It was obviously taken by a professional, and it features Santana in a club. There are a kaleidoscope of neon lights that illuminate her, and as she mixes, she has a hand thrust high in the air. Her eyes are on her tables, but the smile on her face is breathtaking.

"Is she coming into town?" Quinn asks, and Rachel blinks, remembering once again that she's actually not alone here.

She coughs, stepping back and crossing her arms. "We still have to shoot our music video for the single, and it's on an accelerated timeline so she's supposed to, yes." Rachel nods, and struggles to remember what Nathan has told her about Santana and her schedule. "Right now she's in Hong Kong filming the latest Fast & Furious sequel, I know," she adds, because Quinn makes an absolutely hilarious face at that little tidbit, "but that's supposed to wrap soon and then she'll be here."

Quinn presses her lips together. "Good," she says a moment later, and then nods her head. "That's good to know."

It's the WAY she says it that strikes Rachel's curiosity. Quinn's expression is … odd. She's wearing a smirk, and those hazel eyes that are normally so bright and open with Rachel seem almost… hooded.

It's uncomfortable. Rachel is already on shaky ground with Santana; she's not sure she's ready for Quinn to start acting out of character. "Quinn," she begins, reaching out to catch her friend's elbow before Quinn can turn away. "What's going on?"

Caught in the middle of chewing her lower lip as she regards Santana's picture, Quinn just blinks at her. "What do you mean?"

"It's been years, but it's not like I don't know when you're plotting something."

But Quinn only hums thoughtfully, and then squares her shoulders and offers brightly, "I wonder if she's got any good wine in here."

She heads to the kitchen before Rachel can say anything else.

* * *

"Did Santana ever tell you that she and I slept together?" Quinn says, as a Pink Martini album floats from the surround sound speakers that connect to the IPOD dock, and they share a Director's Cut bottle of Coppola Red Wine they've discovered in Santana's kitchen over the island.

Rachel is in the middle of a sip, and immediately chokes, coughing and spitting up the liquid all over Santana's cherry wood table when her heart seizes and her breath catches.

"…I'm guessing by that reaction that the answer is no," Quinn says dryly, putting her own glass of wine down to hand her napkin.

"You slept together?!" She doesn't mean to blurt it out the way she does, and she sure as hell doesn't mean to sound quite so… accusatory, but… this is brand new information. Quinn is looking at her so … smugly, like a cat that ate the canary, the cream, and all the ice cream …

"Mmhmm… " Quinn nods slowly, taking another sip of wine, like this is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

"When?!"

"A long time ago," Quinn answers, but based on the hooded look in Quinn's eyes, she clearly remembers it vividly. "In Lima. Right after she moved to New York at Mr. Schue's wedding on Valentine's Day." Quinn pauses, and a light blush paints her gorgeous cheek bones. "And maybe a couple times after that."

Rachel remembers suddenly one particular instance, during a weekend visit from Quinn. There was a visit to a club, and the sudden disappearance of Quinn and Santana, and coming home half-drunk to Quinn emerging from Santana's bedroom with mussed hair and dressed in only one of Santana's shirts and her teeny tiny booty shorts…

At the time, she had been too drunk to do anything but squeal at Quinn's inability to 'hang' and joke about her freshly cut 'lion' hair, but now… Oh god, how did she not see it before?

"Why did you guys never tell me?!" she hisses. It's… it's not jealousy she's feeling. It can't be. If anything it's… hurt, because Quinn is just staring at her with this infuriating amused look on her face like it's supposed to be funny.

"Because it wasn't any of your business, Rachel," she answers evenly, exhaling as she places her glass of wine on the granite counter, shifting her feet.

Rachel always been a visual person, and she hates that, because now she's picturing it. She's actively imagining what it would look like, to see Quinn and Santana together. Objectively, they'd be gorgeous together. A stunning pair.

Rachel can't… she can't even stomach the idea of it. "Okay, well if that's the case then why are you telling me now?" she asks, because she liked it better, so much better, when she didn't know.

Her glass of wine looks amazing, but Rachel doesn't quite trust herself to reach for it.

"Because I'm wondering if maybe I should do it again."

Her fingers jerk, nearly toppling over both glasses and causing quite a clank. "Are you serious? "

"I'm very serious." One look at Quinn's face tells her that yes, she is. She's actively considering this. She wants to… revisit this … fling with Santana.

The idea is…

Santana said she liked blondes…

Panic is threatening to seize at Rachel. She tries so very hard to breathe through it. "Quinn… " she begins, fingers clenching together as she looks Quinn, beautiful Quinn… so fucking beautiful it makes Rachel ache. "She's our friend."

But Quinn just laughs. "We were friends the last time, and it turned out pretty damn fantastic," she reasons, and reaches for her wine again, heading away from Rachel and towards the living room area.

Oh God, did they do it on the couch?! Rachel shakily reaches for her own glass and follows on trembling legs after her friend.

"Okay," Rachel says when they reach the couches. "But… why now?"

Quinn settles back in the lounge chair, and considers the question. "Why not?" she asks. Rachel swallows hard and forces herself not to speak. Quinn must notice her trepidation, because her expression softens, and suddenly that infuriating glass of wine is put down on the coffee table. "Look," Quinn says, quieter than before. "When it happened with Santana all those years ago, I wasn't ready to be honest with myself about who I was and what I wanted. So… even if it was amazing, I didn't have the courage to really… pursue it. I let her think it was just sex and… we moved on." Rachel presses her lips together. Quinn's right. She's come a long way since she was that scared girl in high school. The woman on the couch now who can freely admit she slept with Santana and liked it is someone who had therapy and time to absorb her old wounds… become comfortable in her own skin. "But it could have been more. I'm pretty sure of that."

Quinn is so … confident. It turns Rachel's stomach. "So why now?"

"Because I have too many regrets in my life, Rachel," Quinn answers, matter-of-fact and to the point. "And this is one of the few I can actually try and mend."

There's a … weight… that settles on Rachel. It keeps her motionless, sedated almost, as she considers what Quinn is telling her in confidence.

And what can Rachel say in response? That she's got her own conflicted feelings about Santana? That she and Santana have shared a kiss and possibly a connection?

Is that even what it is?

Rachel isn't sure, because Santana certainly doesn't seem to think so. Whatever it is they've been doing, it hasn't stopped her from landing in the Tabloids again with another woman sucking on her neck.

The hurt flares deep.

"But Quinn…" she begins, trying hard to keep her voice steady. "The way you're talking… you're talking about a relationship with her." Quinn just looks at her. Rachel's mouth is dry, her voice is raspy, and her chest is tight, but she presses on. "Do.. you… Quinn I showed you the tabloid pictures. Santana isn't exactly the picture of monogamy."

It's a lesson she's learned herself the hard way.

Quinn, however, doesn't seem to share her concern. "That's your argument?" she asks, skeptical. "Santana's tabloid reputation?"

Rachel reminds herself not to take offense. To be quiet and calm. Quinn doesn't know. Quinn doesn't understand. Quinn is an author. She's lived on the fringe of entertainment and her profession lends itself to seclusion. "This is a crazy industry," she says, as kindly as she can. "Relationships are difficult enough in real life, but when you're in that bubble? You don't see the way people throw themselves at her."

"Mmm," Quinn says, mouth full of wine as she mulls the thought over. Her throat bobs, and then her eyes sparkle oddly. "Do you know many internet lesbians threw themselves at Santana in high school, especially after that sex tape got released?" Rachel rolls her eyes, because she doesn't have to know. She remembers that fiasco of a sex tape. "They would follow her to her cheerleading competitions. Brittany almost got into a fight at nationals because some girl actually managed to sneak into their hotel room and tried to have a threesome with them."

"Why is this relevant?" she asks, because this isn't information she needs to know.

But Quinn just regards her. "Do you how many times Santana cheated on Brittany? Even in Kentucky? Zero."

She's telling her that Santana was monogamous.. That Santana was faithful. That no amount of temptation could lead Santana to stray from her true love Brittany.

Rachel used to think the same of her and Finn.

"Fair enough," she allows. "But it's been a long time, Quinn." Her eyes float up to Quinn's, pinning her with her sincerity. "People change."

"Circumstances change." Quinn shakes her head lightly. " Elements change. Beliefs change. People don't."

Pink Martini is crooning their cover of Bitty Boppy Betty. It seems too light and cheery, openly mocking of her suddenly somber mood.

Rachel takes in a long drink of wine. She knows she's upset. She knows she has absolutely no right to be. They're speaking in theory, ruminating on possibilities, and Rachel has no claim on Santana.

There's no reason why she would, regardless. Her career has no place for a lesbian relationship. She has a boyfriend. And whatever connection that resulted from their song and that kiss… Santana obviously doesn't think much of.

There's nothing here for her, not even the rounds of supposedly fantastic sex that Quinn is basing her interest in.

"You don't even know if she's looking for a relationship" she says finally. "I would still be careful."

But Quinn just rolls her eyes. "Well, it's a good thing that it's me that wants to be with her and not you, right?" she asks, and lifts off the couch, taking her empty wine glass with her. "I'm getting a refill."

Rachel remains on the couch. "Right," she breathes.

* * *

She's in workshops nearly all day, but Rachel has become a multi-tasker, and there's still a single to promote. It's got a title now 'I Don't Want to Jump In', and a music video concept that's slowly coming together.

The lyrics are haunting, in retrospect. When she and Santana wrote them, they spoke of a jaded woman who had fallen in love almost against her will, who needed and craved that love even if she didn't want to jump into that precipice, and so that women was stuck, caught in a riptide of emotion that was personified by the pulsing beat that Santana added in around her voice.

When Rachel listens to it, she can hear the swell of the emotion, can feel how the words seem to meld and blend and drown within the percussion and the sirens.

Santana texts her sporadically, and Rachel is now distant and calm, determined not to get sucked into that same game. Maybe Santana gets the message, because she never brings up lingering kisses or a preference for blondes or brunettes.

Then the music video is scheduled and Santana sends her one more text that says, _I'm coming into town. See you soon. _

Her broadway agent gushes over the song. He tells her it speaks of Kpop influences and a deeper manipulation of the BPM and that he's proud of Rachel for taking a chance on something so outside of her comfort zone.

She can only smile and nod her thanks. Truthfully? Rachel just feels like a coward.


	3. Chapter 3

**PART 03.**

_I couldn't get any bigger_

_With anyone else beside of me_

- Justin Timberlake, Mirrors

* * *

The music video is for her album, and though Rachel isn't used to collaborations or how they work specifically, she's not surprised that Santana's management has very specific ideas for how Santana should be featured in it. She's most at home at her tables, Rachel's most at home on a stage with a microphone and, after a lot of back and forth between the various representatives, it's now been decided that the shoot is taking place in a dilapidated warehouse that will be transformed into a forties jazz club.

Rachel will be playing the quintessential lounge singer and gangster's moll, trapped and treated as an object, resigned to her fate. She is a caged songbird who begins her song in the midst of all the beautiful models and extras cast as gangsters, decked out in fedoras and pinstripe suits, puffing on cigars. This will all be filmed in black and white.

Little does this trapped and hopeless singer know that one of these gangsters is Santana Lopez herself, who sneaks into the club, past the hired guns and the bodyguards and backstage, where she proceeds to tug off that fedora, unbutton that pinstripe blazer and rip those pants off to reveal modern clothes: a tight bustier paired with skin tight pants and stiletto heels. Santana is meant to be stunning and in HD color.

Santana explodes onstage with her tables, and as her beats start, the music will shift, infect crowd with the crescendo until suddenly that music is what has freed Rachel from her cage. The lounge has become a club and the color explodes, soft gels and beams of fluorescent lights. Hats are tossed, ties are loosened and the cool mobsters, who were just sitting and smoking and watching, will become a mass of dancing bodies so caught up in the music, Santana easily pulls Rachel away to safety.

Or so she thinks.

The lead mobster, the boyfriend and the only person besides Rachel who has failed to change into color, catches up to them. There is a struggle at the edge of at the dock, and then suddenly as the music stills a loud bang rings out. A moment, just a moment, and then he stumbles back, revealing a blood red wound over his heart, gushing over his desaturated body. He hurls over the dock and to a watery grave. Santana turns, and there Rachel stands with the smoking gun, dressed now as modern as Santana, cheeks rosy and blooming and a vision in color.

There's something to be said for the imagery it instills. It tells a story, a romantic one, but her director is quick to point out that while they do expect some subtext, the truth is that they are sisters in music. Santana is determined to free her because she can't handle someone with Rachel's talent being so trapped.

Privately, Rachel thinks that's a load of horseshit. If her collaboration were with a man, she would have been making out with him by the fade out, but arguing for female equality isn't some she feels is in her best interest at the moment. So she just nods and listens and then retreats to her trailer. She's been given a tight, slinky designer dress that does exactly what it's supposed to do: display her cleavage a distracting amount and give one of her best features, her legs, a chance to shine thanks to the long slit that sits right at her thigh.

Her hair has been pinned back in retro fashion; her makeup is flawless. Looking into the mirror, Rachel knows she's stunning.

It helps, honestly. She hasn't seen Santana this morning. Rachel's call time was earlier than hers, and though there isn't a huge budget for this shoot, of course Santana would get her own trailer.

She expects that's where Santana will be until she's ready to film. While the texts they've exchanged have been friendly, Rachel knows that the flavor of them has changed significantly, and it's her own doing. Santana has seemed happy to let Rachel dictate the nature of their interactions and Rachel isn't sure if she's disappointed or relieved by that.

* * *

When the trailer door opens and Santana stands in the tiny doorway, Rachel realizes that she's both prepared and completely unprepared at the exact same time.

She expects to see Santana decked out in her typical stylish club wear. Instead, Santana has already been dressed by wardrobe for her initial scenes. She's wearing black fitted pin striped pants and a tailored white button up shirt. Wrapped around her torso is a tight satin vest that makes her already tiny waist looks even tinier.

There is no tie or jacket, Santana's not completely suited up, but God, it doesn't matter because the open collar gives attention to the swell of Santana's breasts that push up nicely against the vest.

Rachel's always had a particular weakness for a well-built man in a fitted suit. It's not the best time to discover that her attraction to that particular look isn't limited to gender.

Santana, of course, notices her gaping. There's an actual smirk plastered on her face when Rachel finally looks up, before her DJ Superstar friend digs her hands casually in her pockets and leans against the side of the door.

"I take it you approve?" she asks, brow arching playfully.

She's so damn smug.

Rachel hates that she flushes. She expected that knot of conflicted emotion to twist inside of her the minute she met up with Santana again. She expected her heart to trip unsteadily. She expected the nerves, because Santana has been occupying her thoughts in a ridiculously monopolizing way.

She didn't expect to be so… happy to see her.

Rachel's head bows and she makes a show of keeping her attention on her own reflection in the mirror. "I thought you were supposed to look like a boy." She goes for flippantly unconcerned. "How are you supposed to sneak into a gangster infested bar looking like that?"

Santana frowns, pushing against the doorway and coming further into the tiny trailer. "You don't think my character has skills?"

Almost against her will, Rachel's eyes skid over once more to the admirable sight of the top of Santana's breasts reflected back at her.

"I think your skills aren't as noticeable as your boobs," she comments as airily as possible.

Santana's mouth quirks; her arms cross in challenge. "My boobs? What about yours?"

Rachel blinks. Her fitted green dress does have a very low neckline, and yes, she had to actually be taped in, but… "I'm in character!"

Santana ventures closer, until her thigh brushes against Rachel's bare shoulder and she leans against the counter. Dark smoky eyes gaze down at her, linger shamelessly on her cleavage.

"Yeah," she breathes out, softer and thicker than before. "Well, I think your _character_ looks gorgeous."

The shiver that travels up Rachel's spine is impossible to hide.

Santana's quiet smile just grows wider.

Rachel finds herself concentrating on that frustrating mouth.

"Ahem." Rachel blinks, and is suddenly horrified when she remembers they aren't exactly alone. Margot, transplanted from Los Angeles to New York for Rachel's own personal use, just smiles tightly and quickly gathers her brushes. "You know what? I'm going to give you two some time to catch up."

"Margot-"

The look Margot shoots her is wide-eyed, knowing glare. "Be back in a bit."

It would be amusing if it wasn't so damn mortifying.

The trailer door closing, shutting out the busy set and leaving behind a thick, quiet tension. Left alone with Santana, Rachel isn't quite sure what to do. She wants to be distant, formal. It's the tone she's set in her texts and she needs to be consistent.

She's angry at Santana. She's HURT by Santana. She's confused by Santana.

She needs to compartmentalize her friendship with Santana.

It's so hard to do that when Santana is less than a foot away, smelling the way she does, and looking the way she does, and it's especially difficult when the other women's smile fades and she exhales, "So I missed you."

The rush of emotion floods Rachel so quickly she feels tears stinging in her eyes. God, this isn't fair.

Rigidly, she blinks them back, turning in her chair back to the mirror so she can only focus on herself. "Did you?" she asks.

"Yeah, Shorty I did." Santana says, laughter coating her light, easy voice. Rachel swallows, feels the heat of Santana staring at her. "Why do you sound so skeptical?"

Is this even Santana's fault? They kissed; Rachel said it was a mistake… that's it. That's what happened.

Rachel lowers the brush. "I don't know," she admits, and shakes her head at her own stupidity. "I'm sorry," she confesses, and turns, offering a smile for her friend. "Thanks for being here."

Santana puffs out air indignantly. "Hell, this is gonna be a hit for me too. I wouldn't miss it." Rachel smiles as she watches the way Santana's hands clasp the end of her vanity, fingers curling around the edge. "So… listen… I um… I heard from Quinn."

Rachel's grin immediately falters. "What?"

A lock of dark hair falls into Santana's face. The other woman quickly pushes it back over her ear. "She… she told me that you might be a little pissed at me."

"She what?"

Faced with the glare that Rachel sends her way, Santana looks genuinely conflicted as to whether or not she should answer that. "Rachel-"

Rachel's brush clatters to the vanity. "I can't believe that she did that." The anger comes quickly, almost too quickly. "I didn't give her your number for her to…"

"Why _did_ you give her my number?"

The question stops Rachel cold. "Why wouldn't I?" she asks, suddenly very unsure.

Santana shrugs. "I mean it's fine but…"

"But what?" Santana's jaw tightens. Her shoulders straighten. Rachel finds she's both annoyed, confused and… a little ashamed. She never considered that Santana wouldn't WANT to hear from Quinn. "Am I supposed to just keep you a secret from your best friends?"

"Rachel, relax," Santana snaps, voice growing firm. "It's fine. I was just surprised."

It's the tone in Santana's voice that makes Rachel realize she's getting upset over… nothing. God, it's like she's turning into the Rachel Berry circa the Finn era. What the hell is happening to her?

"Sorry," she mumbles, and slumps back in her chair. After a moment, she glances up at Santana. "What else did she say?"

"She said she just wanted to reconnect."

Santana is flippant and calm. Rachel discovers that her reaction is most definitely the opposite. She snorts, angry and somehow miserable, "Oh, I bet she did."

And maybe that's the sentence that's too much for Santana, who pushes away from the vanity and glares at her. "Now what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Rachel gnaws on her lower lip, feeling like a sullen and stupid child. "Nothing, it doesn't mean anything," she says, and because apparently she has reverted into a love-sick teenager, she adds nastily, "Nothing means anything when it comes to you."

That one actually seems to strike Santana speechless. "…What the fuck is your problem?!" she asks, clearly frustrated.

"I don't know!" Rachel snaps. It's almost as if she's outside of herself, staring in horror while this stupid GIRL takes over her body and completely decimates every bit of the mature relationship she has managed to cobble together and build with her old friend. She scrambles for an excuse. "How about my friend completely disregarding my privacy-"

"Then yell at Quinn, don't yell at me."

"-FINE," she grits, because she has no actual comeback for that. She sits in stony silence, and honestly she wonders why Santana is still here. She's pissed, but even she understands that Santana doesn't deserve this kind of attitude.

"Fine." Santana shifts her balance on her heels, before thrusting her hands in her pockets, and the move is so damn sexy it's impossible not to hate her a little for it. "But you're still pissed at me."

"I'm not."

"I'm not _stupid_, Rachel!"

And yet Rachel can't seem to help herself.

"I don't like how you treat women!" she blurts, and it literally feels like she pull that out of her ass.

Santana looks at her as if she's gone and grown a second head. "You don't like how I treat women?" she repeats, enunciating the words in a perfect Rachel Berry mimic that is ten times more irritating than when it comes out of Rachel herself. "I'm sorry, Rachel have I disrespected you in some way?!"

Someone raps sharply on the door, so loudly and suddenly it makes Rachel jump. The door creaks open, and a curly headed PA sticks his head into the trailer. He's momentarily taken aback at the sight of the two of them, but seems to recover quickly enough to say, "Five minutes, Ms. Berry." He hems for a second, and then offers a quick polite smile to the other occupant. "Ms. Lopez."

Just as quickly as he peeks in, he ducks out, shutting the flimsy trailer door behind him.

They're alone again.

Rachel's eyes close. She's momentarily exhausted. There's the telltale sound of shuffling, and when her eyes open once again, she sees that Santana has settled in a chair beside her own. She's picking at some invisible lint on her knee.

"Is this about those stupid pictures?" Rachel's mouth twitches as her chest constricts. That seems to be answer enough. "I did that for you."

It's the exact opposite of what she expects to hear. "Excuse me?"

It's odd. Santana looks almost… nervous. "Look, I just… I get it, okay?" Rachel presses her lips together, watches intently as Santana keeps her focus on her wringing hands. "I'm not stupid, I know our industry sucks and I know how hard you work and… shit is finally really happening for you." Santana may as well be speaking in code for all the sense she's making. Her friend's dark eyes lift up, lock onto hers briefly. It's just enough to strike her breathless, before Santana looks away. "You can't… there can't be rumors and I get that so…"

And suddenly it comes together.

"… So you made out with an aging pop star on a yacht?" she asks, unable to keep the disbelief out of her voice. "That was your big act of chivalry?"

There's a flush that burns so deep on Santana's tan skin, it's frustratingly adorable. "Look, it made sense at the time," she gripes.

Rachel wants to laugh at the absurdity of it. "That's…" she tries to process it. Tries to understand how in Santana logic that would benefit her in any way. God, but it would make sense to Santana. This is the girl who broke up with her high school sweetheart even though they still loved each other for Brittany's own good, not realizing how it destroyed Brittany in the process. Santana could be such an IDIOT in the guise of a White Knight. "- actually stupidly sweet if you think about it," she admits.

Santana snorts. "Yeah, well you seem to bring that out in me."

It's a quiet admission, like Santana can't quite believe it herself. This superstar DJ who had Jessie J. dragging her tongue up and down her neck and a stunning woman like Quinn Fabray aching to relive a long ago fling, is smiling at HER like she's the only one that matters. It's just this muted twitch of her lips that is both shy and awkward, but it's so damn charming Rachel feels herself actually melt.

She's hopeless. This is hopeless.

Rachel swallows and does her best to contain herself and her weakness. "I'm sorry," she says softly. "I just… I don't know what's been going on with me," she admits, and feels those dark burning eyes on her as she does it. She flashes a timid, sweet grin. "But you don't deserve this attitude. Especially from me. You're an adult and so are the… women that you're with." Her stomach turns at even the thought. "And for the record? I think whoever is with you at any given time is very lucky."

A puff of air rushes out of Santana's pursed lips. Clearly she's a skeptic. But that gorgeous spark is back in Santana's brilliant dark eyes, and on her features is an impish grin that makes Rachel shiver in response. "Well." Rachel watches as Santana deliberately reaches over, until their fingers slide together and lock in a loose hold. "Right now you're with me," she very correctly observes, fiddling with Rachel's grip. "So I guess that means lucky _you_."

Rachel's mouth trembles; her throat closes. "I guess so." The fingers smooth against her, a delicate and soft searching touch that seems both tentative and bold.

The door shakes with a sudden thump. "Ms. Berry," comes the muffled voice. "We're ready for you!"

Rachel's tongue sits flat at the roof of her mouth. She glances from the door to Santana, to the clasped hands that link loosely between them.

Santana's smirk widens. "You ready to make some beautiful music together?"

God, she missed her. "Set me free, baby," she whispers, quoting their own lyrics, and it's never felt more right or real than at that moment.

* * *

It's a long day. Santana's schedule is crazier than her own, but Rachel knows that hers isn't easy to work with, especially when she's in workshop mode, completely absorbed and doing everything she can to bring something new and refreshing and different to the complex character of the Witch. So they cram as much as they can into a fourteen hour work day. Rachel's throat is raw from singing the same song over and over again (the beginning of the song is sung live on set – the director is in love with idea of an authentic performance). Grips who had begun the day with wide eyes and wicked smiles (apparently two gorgeous women and equally gorgeous extras on set will put a perk in your step) are now slouching with exhaustion on any available surface, including the uncomfortable plastic crates that will brand diamond sized marks into their thighs, shoveling cookies into their mouths for the energy rush.

Rachel's tired too. And yet… there's a certain type of adrenaline that rushes deep into Rachel with the depth of a good performance. It's an inexplicable thrill that keeps her buoyant, because this is a music video for her SINGLE, and she's dressed up and gorgeous, and when she looks up from her mark and waits for the music, it's not a stranger who stands across from her.

Santana's eyes dance with this unexplainable mirth. She holds that cigar in her fingers , and has to refrain from smoking it (because this is something that has to happen on cue), and though the director is talking with wild, eccentric hand motions, it's Rachel that Santana's staring at.

Dark-stained lips purse together, moistening the edge of that damned cigar and still Rachel can catch the way the edges of that plump mouth tilt up.

Santana's beautiful, but the way she's looking at Rachel…

Rachel knows she's beautiful too.

They're in this together, and standing here, in this tight hallway that's lit to make them look like they're alone but in actuality is filled to the brim with the large group of production crew in every corner that isn't seen by the cameras, it still feels like there's no one else that matters.

* * *

It's not that late when the wrap is finally called. But Rachel's call time was 5AM, which means she actually woke up at 4, and these long production days do take their toll when she's not actively used to them. The hours of live singing means her voice is hoarse. She's been standing on a wooden stage or dock nearly the entire time, which means her feet pulse (and maybe swell) with the blood that rushes to her toes after she's finally able to remove the painfully high stiletto heels she's been wearing.

Even though it's only 9PM, to say she's exhausted is an understatement.

She has maybe enough energy to pull on a pair of boyfriend jeans, a tank and her ballet flats. One of the PA's offers her a coffee to go, which she gratefully accepts. A long sip gives her the gumption to get up out of her chair and make her way out of the trailer.

As she gingerly heads down the trailer steps, she's well aware that she's walking way too tentatively for her own good, and mentally reminds herself to schedule a pedicure to deal with the blisters that she knows will be emerging after a day in those heels.

"Don't tell me you're limping," says a dry voice from a dark corner just out of reach of the light blaring from the spotlight above her trailer. "You need to toughen up, Berry. Heels are a necessary evil for a pop star."

It's Santana, of course, who walks forward slowly, until she's illuminated and visible.

Rachel straightens, but her mouth quirks at the challenge in her friend's tone. "Maybe I need to start a new trend, then."

"Good luck with that." Like Rachel, Santana hasn't bothered to remove her makeup, but the torn jeans and chunky boots look as casual as Rachel has ever seen her when not in the comfort of her own home. It's always a little flabbergasting, to see the different layers of masks that Santana employs, through her hair and her makeup and her clothes. "I was wondering when you were going to come out."

"Were you waiting for me?" Rachel's stomach tightens; she feels a rush of pleasure at the thought.

Santana shrugs, like this is no big deal. "Too tired for dinner?"

Her feet are killing her and her throat is sore and her mind is exhausted, and two minutes ago, the only thing she really wanted was to head home and soak in Santana's gorgeous spa-style bathtub.

Rachel can't think of one thing she'd rather do than spend time having dinner with Santana Lopez.

* * *

Santana has a car and a driver at her disposal, and it's a reminder again of the scope of Santana's success in relation to Rachel's.

It should sting, because who would have guessed that out of their entire Glee Club, it would be Santana that's the paparazzi darling and the filthy rich pop artist?

Even so, Rachel has to admit, it suits her. It's always suited Santana to live just a little larger than life. It was how they connected in New York, and it's what makes her feel quietly close to her now, as Santana directs the driver to an Ethiopian restaurant that they used to frequent in Chelsea all those years ago.

They stay quiet in the car. Rachel wonders if this is actual sexual tension, because even though she's exhausted, she's very AWARE of Santana, and finds she has to actually fight the impulse to keep looking at her, to keep her hands to herself, and not focus on the smooth caramel of Santana's tanned forearms or slender fingers and the way they slide over the seat.

For once, her exhaustion seems to work in her favor. All that angst, all that confusion and paranoia and FEAR that has been bottled up inside her and caused her to act so stupidly when it comes to her roommate has simmered.

Maybe that's all still inside of her, but Rachel finds there's no energy to waste on it. Instead, Rachel can lounge in this car, head leaning back against the comfortably cool leather of the back seat, and just absorb and appreciate this special connection that she shares with Santana Lopez.

Maybe Santana's of the same mind, because she's quiet too, legs crossed, regarding Rachel with this hooded gaze. The smirk that plays on her lips, like she's got some unspoken secret, is devastatingly sexy.

"So…" Rachel finds herself finally saying, foot bobbing as she resettles herself to face Santana. "If you're back in town, where exactly are you staying?"

Santana's secret smile goes deeper still, but she just says with a deadpan droll, "Well, there's a squatter in my apartment…" Rachel rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "So, I booked the Omni."

Normally, a comment like that may have put Rachel in this wicked spiral of self-doubt, because why wouldn't Santana even entertain the offer of staying with her?

Rachel discovers that the magic of the music video hasn't quite faded yet. At least that's what she attributes her self-confidence to, as she sighs and huffs, "Santana, that's stupid. It's your place."

Santana's brow arches. "So you want me to kick you out so you can get a hotel room?"

"Or," Rachel says a moment later, because Santana's being determinedly thick about this. "We could just… stay there together."

She doesn't mean to lick her lips as she says that. She doesn't mean for her eye lids to flutter the way they do or for their eyes to lock so… intensely. She doesn't MEAN for this sexual tension to be so… thick. But it's there, and it's maddening, and maybe it does sound like Rachel's propositioning her.

Rachel isn't sure she cares.

Santana still might. "I only have one bed, Rachel," she points out, but her voice is thicker, lower than it was a second ago, and just noticing that makes Rachel's insides clench.

She takes a deep breath, tries to force the color off her cheeks and keep her beating heart quiet as she adds conversationally, "You also have a couch."

It's an option. Rachel could argue quite validly that her intentions are honorable. And she thinks they are. There's no reason why Santana should feel like she should have to stay somewhere else just because Rachel is subletting her apartment.

She doesn't look at Santana as she waits for her friend to respond.

"You're putting me on the couch in my own apartment? You are a bitch, Rachel."

Rachel snorts before she can stop it. "Shut up," she snaps, trying and failing to keep the amusement out of her voice. "I'm serious." Santana continues to just look at her, indecision painted on her face, along with that scampy half smile that tells Rachel that she won't be able to resist much longer. Deliberately, Rachel reaches across the leather of the backseat and slides her fingers over Santana's, an arguably friendly gesture. "Come on, it'll be like old times!"

Dark eyes flutter slowly away from Rachel's face and down to their entwined hands. Santana's attention stays there for a long minute, before her head lifts and that devastating gaze pins her once again. "You sure?" Rachel presses her lips together, and Santana's fingers squeeze against hers meaningfully. "I mean, we wouldn't want people to think you've caught the gay."

There's a coil that's tightening inside of Rachel. She feels the pressure, the way it twists. It's sensitive to Santana, twitches with the deliberate touch. She's so aware of the way Santana's fingers move between her own, flicking and sensitive.

Just the movement of those searching digits reminds Rachel of a questing tongue, searching for purchase in a deep kiss.

It's… erotic.

"Maybe I'll take my chances," she manages.

Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe she's stupid. Maybe she'll regret this in the morning.

But she's already had so many regrets, and in the face of the way of this, of the tingles that erupt when Santana strokes her fingers, of the breathless way she absorbs Santana's smoldering stare, Rachel decides that 'maybe' is not a good enough excuse to deny exploring whatever this is.

Not tonight.

* * *

A good excuse finds her when literally two minutes after they decide to forgo the restaurant and head straight back to the flat for 'take out', Rachel and Santana's phones ring at the exact same time.

"It's Kurt," she says with surprise, just as she hears Santana murmur, "Quinn?"

Their fingers untangle, and Rachel pretends not to notice how Santana doesn't seem to care, pressing the answer button on her phone and bringing it to her ear to take their mutual friend's call.

It delays Rachel for two seconds before she realizes she should be doing the same.

She works quickly to keep the call from going to voicemail. "Kurt, it's like… 3AM in Spain," she snips, not in the mood for whatever madness that has Kurt calling at this hour. "Are you drunk again?"

"…Yes," Kurt snaps, with that high pitchy squeal that would have told Rachel he was severely imbibed regardless. "But that's besides the point. Guess where I am, right now!"

Rachel doesn't want to. "Hugh Jackman's penthouse?" she tries, a lame attempt.

"Oh fuck," Santana breathes beside her, and then Rachel doesn't have to guess.

The sedan pulls in front of the very familiar apartment building and standing on the curb, waiting for them with red noses and wide, idiotic smiles, bundled together to protect each other from the cold are Quinn, Kurt, and a gaggle of her old NYADA friends.

Kurt, who should be in Spain and not here in New York, just grins gleefully.

"It's party time, bitches!" he crows, the phone in his hand and his voice reverberating in Rachel's ear.

* * *

Rachel is flabbergasted, which is actually kind of stupid considering the company. In her college days, she and Kurt had become famous among their drama-geek crowd for their impromptu soirées. It would annoy Santana terribly at first, especially when she would come home from a late shift at the Coyote Ugly or that divey lesbian bar she cage-danced for only to find future Broadway stars belting out the lyrics and doing choreography to Chicago or A Chorus Line.

She called the cops on them once.

It got significantly better when they managed to convince her to join in. Her rendition of 'Out Tonight' from Rent sent surprised, impressed gasps throughout the room, and, Rachel remembers suddenly with a grimace, got Santana laid that night. Very loudly.

"Oh my GOD!" Kurt breathes, looking dapper, handsome and buff but so very very gay as he squeals over the expensive mahogany wood bar that Santana has added into the space as a corner bar. "Is this cherry wood?!"

Rachel doesn't know and at the moment doesn't care to find out. She's frustrated beyond belief, making her movements shaky as she works the cork off the bottle of wine.

Santana, who after her initial shock, seems to have matured enough to have no issue with the party-crashers, lets out a peal of laughter that carries across the room. The source of this supposed hilarity is Quinn, who, Rachel couldn't help but noticed, has wasted no time in gluing herself to Santana's side as if she were her date.

Quinn wears a wide, gorgeous smile as she places a hand on Santana's bicep, invading her space completely as she whispers something for Santana's ears only.

Santana has no problem with that either.

Rachel's wrists jerks, and the cork breaks off in the stem of bottle. "Fuck!" she snaps, and drops the corkscrew with a flustered pant. "What are you doing here?" she asks, eyes flashing to Kurt.

Kurt pauses in the middle of the rave-y hand-wavey thing that he was doing in time to Santana's hosted music blaring on the speakers to give Rachel an unimpressed glare.

Rachel flushes. She doesn't mean to make it come off so… bitchy.

"Stand down, Rachel Berry," he says solemnly, clearly taking his time to rev up his comeback to her unwarranted little snipe. "I'm here to meet a designer. Originally it was going to be a video conference but then I heard that Santana was going to be in town and I thought, why not surprise two of my best friends who I haven't seen in forever?" He takes a sip of wine and does a little twiddle with his fingers as a flourish.

Rachel's sour mood does not lift at the very sweet and very innocent explanation. "Right," she sighs. "Why not?"

He frowns. "Why are you not happy to see me? Appreciate me, bitch! That flight was no picnic!"

She's being ridiculous of course. Kurt was as important to Santana as Rachel was. They were the three amigos, and despite their tumultuous high school relationships, they managed to find a way to cling and connect to each other in New York, in this very loft.

Why wouldn't he have every right to expect and want to see Santana? Who is Rachel to deny him that?

A selfish bitch who doesn't know her own mind, apparently.

"NO," she sighs, and gives up on the wine bottle completely, coming around the bar with her arms outstretched. "God, Kurt, no, of COURSE I'm happy." She steps into his arms and immediately finds herself comforted by the familiarity of the embrace of Kurt Hummel, her best friend. Just the warmth from him and the smell of his familiar cologne makes her squeeze tighter. It's a relief, to hug him and hold him and know exactly where she stands. "I'm so happy to see you," she admits, and doesn't let go for a full minute.

She lets go when he stops patting her back companionably and starts to squirm. As he pulls back, his expression remains suspicious. "So why are you wearing that face?"

"What face?" she asks, with a straight of an expression she can muster.

It's more difficult than it would be if Santana and Quinn weren't in her direct line of vision, clinking glasses together and futzing over Santana's pile of records by her media center in the corner. It's classic Quinn Fabray, playing the role of the curious ignorant in the face of Santana's passion, and it's annoying that Santana seems to fall for it so easily, excitedly pulling out a vinyl and showing it to Quinn. If Rachel wasn't trying so hard to be ambivalent to it all, she'd cuff Santana on the back of the head just to make a point.

"Your bitchy 'this isn't going my way' face," Kurt clarifies, and Rachel frowns. He just looks exasperated. "Never play poker, Rachel," he advises sagely. "It's kind of ironic that you're an actress considering how bad you are at hiding your emotions."

Augh. "I'm just tired," she mumbles. "It's been a long day."

"Hmm," he says in response, but seems too buzzed to really care much beyond his initial skeptism. "Well, get your shit together," he orders her and takes another long gulp of wine. "You have friends here who want to celebrate your success, including one who flew a LONG way to be with you and Santana. Don't make that face," he warns. "You have been hogging Santana all to yourself for way too long!" He points his finger at Rachel's nose for emphases, and then makes a bemused, almost disgusted face. "God, that felt weird to say. When on earth did I start loving the bitch?"

Rachel's heart thuds unexpectedly, so pronounced that it actually forces her hand to slip off the cork and nearly impale herself with the corkscrew.

As if on cue, Santana laughs again, and this time she's actually got Quinn in close, demonstrating some sort of weird krump move to one of her the other party goers that involves grinding her ass in Quinn's crotch. Someone whoops and Santana breaks the dance move to giggle, straightening back and using Quinn as support as she dissolves into hysterical giggles.

"That's a very good question," Rachel mutters, and stabs at the corkscrew again. "God dammit, why won't this damn thing-"

"Okay, how about you let me do that before we end up in the ER because you cut your hand open," Kurt snaps, swiping the corkscrew from her hand and taking over the bottle. Disgusted with herself, Rachel slumps against the bar. "…Are we going to have to talk about this?"

With a exhalation of breath, Rachel pragmatically steals Kurt's wine, pressing the glass to her lips as she continues to watch the interaction across the room. "About what?"

"Rachel," he snaps because a drunk Kurt is not a patient Kurt. "You told me you talked to her. You said you talked it all out and that everything was fine."

"Everything _is_ fine," she mutters, but her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are sparkling with something green-tinted, and when Quinn spreads her palm quite possessively over Santana's hip, leaning in way too obviously as she oohs and aws over the stupid record Santana's showing her, she considers downing the entire glass.

"Oh my GOD," Kurt squeals, so loudly that Rachel nearly topples over the glass.

Dammit, he's right. Rachel can be an absolutely horrible liar.

"Kurt!" she whispers frantically, because he's getting very red-faced and the wordless squeaks he's now dissolved into are increasingly high-pitched, and that means they're getting attention, most notably from Santana and Quinn, who pause in their discussion to glance wonderingly at the bar.

Panicked, Rachel grabs hold of Kurt's wrist and manhandles him away from the bar and toward the only privacy she can find: the space between Santana's studio and her bedroom that used to be Santana's bedroom.

He keeps babbling those words that aren't words, and doesn't stop until Rachel pushes him up forcibly against the wall of Santana's bedroom. "Would you stop!"

"Don't tell me you're on Team Gay now!" he squeaks. At the mention of the G-Word, Rachel clamps both hands over his mouth.

"I'm not," she argues adamantly. Kurt squeaks against her fingers. "I'm NOT!" she insists, because does it really count as Team Gay when they're just thoughts and not yet actions? Technicalities don't seem to matter when Kurt is getting progressively fixated. He's still giving muffled little squeaks that eek out from behind her hands.

Rachel has to think fast. Kurt may be fixated, but he's also drunk which means he's also easily distractible. "But Quinn may be."

The babbling stops. Cautiously, Rachel lifts her hands from his mouth. "Pardon?" he asks, frozen in position.

"She's interested in Santana," she whispers. It's an actual battle not to sound as annoyed about it as she is. Kurt just stares at her, brow cocked. "Did you know they slept together years ago?"

The emphatic brow just buries itself way into his forehead. "How did you NOT know?" he asks, and Rachel's eyes widen. "Rachel," he sighed, like Rachel's gone stupid. "That one time Quinn came to visit they spent nearly the entire visit in Santana's room with all the curtains drawn, and Santana blasted Marvin Gaye the whole time. What did you THINK was going on?"

"I have no idea," she confesses miserably and decides she no longer wants to dwell on that period of her life where she was apparently idiotically obtuse. Her palm slides over her features in frustration as she slumps back next to Kurt, taking a deep breath to compose herself.

"What's going on, Rachel?" she hears him ask, voice quiet and concerned.

"God, I just… Kurt," she begins, and turns to her friend pleadingly. "Just promise me there aren't going to be any more surprises today, okay? I can't take anymore."

His lips press together. He's noticeably silent.

Rachel feels a growing sense of dread. "What?"

"Nothing," he insists, and licks his lips, preparing himself. "Tell me you're still with Troy."

She narrows her eyes, but slowly nods. "Barely," she confesses. "But yes. I'm still with Troy."

"Good." Kurt clamps his hand on her shoulder, making her jump. "Because he just walked in." Rachel heart stops, and Kurt presses a kiss to her cheek. "Toodles!"

* * *

Kurt invited Troy, who, in spurt of uncharacteristic sweetness, took the weekend off from filming and flew last minute to surprise his girlfriend and congratulate her on her success with both her upcoming single and being cast in the iconic role of the Witch in the big budget Broadway revival of _Into the Woods_.

That's what he told her. Loudly in front of everyone. So everyone could hear.

Troy remains unchanged. He showed up looking his dapper, handsome self, with his perfect set of teeth set in a charming smile and a teddy bear under his arm made especially for Rachel that holds a heart with 'Congratulations' written on it. He presented it to her with a dramatic flourish and a sweet kiss on her cheek, and Rachel could hear the 'awws' and 'oohs' from every one of her spectating friends.

He's fawned over by the party goers, straight and gay alike, because Troy is a pretty guy, and plays the role of the supportive boyfriend with a possessive hand over her hip, engaging in easy conversation and asking Rachel more than once if she needs a refill on her wine.

Rachel is both shocked at his consideration and very annoyed at him for showing up.

Neither is a good sign for the future of this relationship.

For some reason, that depresses Rachel more than anything. Rachel's Broadway castmates have arrived and they've all brought guests. This has turned from a small gathering into an actual party. One of Santana's mixes plays through her obviously pristine and expensive sound system, and now the converted loft is full with drinking, dancing and laughing conversation.

His hand that spreads on her hip feels intrusive and heavy, and though she stands it, she finds herself desperately aware of Santana and the way the other woman has kept her distance. Troy isn't the only recognizable star in this crowd. It's almost amusing to see Quinn's strained smile, frustration eeking out because now Santana has a whole crowd of fans gathered around her. Stef, who plays the Baker's Wife, has been 'in love' with Santana for eons (she confessed it to Rachel in a conspirator's whisper the first day of rehearsal), and hasn't been able to resist having Santana sign her abs, and gab gushingly at her. There's also fans of Quinn's novels in attendance, and for a moment Rachel's proud, to see her fellow Lima transplants so gorgeous and successful. Even Kurt, who didn't end up on stage like her, can be seen arguing about the new fall Oscar De la Renta line with an adoring Chorus boy, who looks two seconds away from asking Kurt to whip out his dick so he can suck it in worship.

Rachel's heart is in a curious place. Her jealousy (because yes, that's what it is, she's big enough to admit it), has settled down to a soft simmer. She's not sure what's caused the shift, but she supposes that maybe Troy's presence does have its advantages, because Santana hasn't stopped sneaking lingering unreadable glances since he's walked in.

It makes Rachel, with her never-emptying wine glass and that quiet buzz that's been working her way through her system, want so very badly to look back.

So she does. She meets those quiet, curious stares, and offers some of her own, searching and unafraid, fingers tightening around the stem of her glass with every glance.

No one notices. The character who plays the Baker in her play is a jovial Broadway veteran who wants to be the next Neil Patrick Harris, and he's currently in the middle of one of his animated tales that somehow involve jumping on Santana's coffee table and doing a weird hip thrusting thing.

Beside her, Troy laughs his characteristically loud, reverberating laugh. It distracts Rachel, reminds her that she's here with her boyfriend and there is a definite line she's crossing, leering at her hot brunette female friend when he's got his hands all over her.

She clears her throat and feels her cheeks flush, and forces her attention back to where she knows it belongs.

Rachel's phone, in a trick learned from Santana herself a long, long time ago, buzzes from within the confines of her bra. Carefully, Rachel switches her glass to her other hand and retrieves it to glance at the screen.

_You invited Troy the Midget? He's even tinier in person than I thought he would be._

Rachel's lips press together in amusement. She glances up and notices Santana's phone being subtly pushed in the back pocket of her tight jeans. Rachel watches the movement with interest, and with a lick of her lips, begins to type a one-handed response.

_Kurt did. I didn't. And you're still shorter._

The message is sent, and her hand is jostled. It's then she notices that the drink one of her castmates is pressing into Troy's hand is a little light-tinted to be just coke.

For Troy, who is going on five years as a recovering alcoholic, it's a problem. "Troy," she says, hand on his bicep as she lifts up on her heels to whisper quietly in his ear. "Are you sure you should be drinking that?"

Drink already tipping into his mouth, the look on his face is one of exasperation. "Come on, it's one drink, Rachel," he says, low and under his breath.

It's unfair to do this right now. They're in public. Troy is smart, and he's used it to his advantage.

"Besides," he says, louder as he tightens his arm around her, squeezing affectionately. "We're celebrating!"

"There's always an excuse, isn't here?" she snits under her breath, face plastered in a practiced smile as one of her friends catches her eye as he continues the conversation.

Her phone buzzes just as his grip tightens. _You should look a little happier to see your man, Rachel._

His hold feels claustrophobic. Rachel just eyes Santana's form, noting the way the phone stays in Santana's hand. Their gaze catches, just long enough for Rachel's heartbeat to trip unsteadily, before Santana is drawn back into her conversation.

And she suddenly gets pissed. Had the circumstances had been a bit different, had Kurt decided to wait just one more day, then this loft would have been empty. It would have been her and Santana here, alone, talking and sharing and being together, and maybe, just maybe, that crippling fear that had been slowly ebbing away would have receded completely and they could finally be at a place where it was just the two of them without a single, or a music career, or an agent or publicist or showmance boyfriend getting in the way of remembering how easy it was just to be HONEST with each other.

Okay, maybe it was never easy. But it was real. It was tangible. Santana could look her in the eyes and just SEE her, and it used to scare the crap out of Rachel, but she aches for it now. She aches for that mirror, to see herself reflected in those dark eyes and REMEMBER how special it was to be seen for something other than a marketable image.

For some reason, this flush of anger and resentment emboldens Rachel. _Honestly?_ _I would have rather spent the night alone with you._

She presses send, and then watches out of the corner of her eye as Santana reaches for her back pocket, sliding out the phone and casually dialing in her code to unlock her phone.

The smile that's on Santana's face stalls as she reads the reply. Immediately, her eyes lift to catch Rachel's gaze, but her look is hooded, nearly smoldering. Santana's lips press together in a sexy smirk, and then she's typing quickly before reengaging in her conversation with the adoring Stef.

_Wanky. _

She's giving Rachel an easy, simple response, and left the next move to Rachel. She's done it before, and the last time Santana had given Rachel an out with a simply worded text, Rachel had taken it.

She doesn't want to do that now. Slowly, she exhales and with another sip of wine and an accelerated heartbeat, types out a one-word response. _Preferably._

The hand currently squeezing her hip places more pressure than before, demanding her attention. Rachel frowns. Troy's smile has faded slightly. "Seriously?" he asks, eyes flitting from her and the phone. "Come on, Rachel, it's been like a month." She isn't sure what to say to that. He's been gone for months at a time before. The drink in his hand is already half gone.

"Do you want a Coke?" she asks pointedly. He rolls his eyes.

Her phone vibrates in her hand, and Rachel, already tipsy and with far less reserve because of it, lowers her head to read the reply. _You're flirting with me in front of your man, Rachel? That's ballsy. How drunk are you? _

She sees Santana trying not to look at her. But her posture is stiff. She's waiting for a response; she's waiting for Rachel.

Santana's still hesitant and Rachel doesn't blame her. She's kissed Rachel, she's shared her passion and her music with her, she's pressed her against a wall and dismantled her completely, and still Rachel's managed to run away from that.

Now they're nearly strangers in a room where they've shared countless memories, and the last thing Rachel wants is to run away.

_Stone cold sober, Santana._

She's physically unable to look anywhere else but in Santana's direction. Across the room, Santana absorbs the text. Rachel notes the way she sucks in air through her teeth, the way those eyes pin on hers, darker than she's ever seen them.

It causes an actual ache, a twinge that sends a shiver down her chest and between her legs.

_So, you ready to tell me you're over this straight girl gay panic thing and actually want to deal with this?_

"So that's Santana," she hears, low and closer to her ear.

She shudders at the sensation. Troy's deliberately reminded her of his presence, and worse, he's caught on to the way she's looking at Santana. His hand presses in against her, until he's flush behind her. THEY'RE looking at her now, and it changes the energy, makes this feel lewd.

"Yeah," she breathes out unsteadily, wine raising to her lips, using it to bolster her own resolve. "That's Santana."

For a moment, she sees Santana the way Troy would – a fascinating stranger, thin and toned and beautifully exotic. She sees her as prey. It reminds her of every murmur, every rumor, every single time she would turn a blind eye to Troy and the way women would fall all over him; how he enjoyed the attention; relished it. How easy it was to pretend that it was all okay because he still came home to her.

"She's hot," he mumbles, and her eyes roll up, because that's both idiotic and an understatement. She hates how easily he can reduce a complex being like Santana into just another woman to be objectified. "Think she'd be up for a threesome?"

The warm buzz that up to this moment had been quietly simmering inside of her, warming her and causing a curious, addictive arousal, quickly extinguishes.

"That's disgusting, Troy," she snaps, and goes so far as to push his arm off her waist with a force that a couple of her friends actually notice.

"Why?" he snaps. The amusement is gone from his face. "Why is it disgusting when I do it, but it's perfectly fine for you to practically fuck her with your eyes?" he adds, quiet but pointed.

Rachel's wine glass almost slips from her hands. Her eyes harden, and unable to help herself, she glances at the crowd around them. "Troy," she hisses, because no, she doesn't want to do this here.

"You think I'm an idiot, Rachel?" he continues, pitch rising, and that's how she knows he's well on his way to getting drunk. "You want her, she's obviously looking at you." Rachel's eyes close in quiet frustration. "I'm trying to be cool about this."

Now Troy is looking suddenly like a hurt, petulant puppy, and they're catching attention in a room filled to brim with both her co-workers and her friends. Santana is standing twenty feet away, dark eyes burning into her and Troy, waiting for Rachel to answer the question she's posed.

God… Is she ready?

Rachel doesn't have it in her to be afraid. Not now. Carefully, she takes a deliberate sip, emptying the rest of her wine, before she places the glass on a nearby table and then tangles her fingers with Troy's, leading him away from the crowd and toward the only available area with any sort of privacy. She leads them toward the harsh metal door, exiting the loft.

It's there, in this dingy hallway that still smells and looks like a hovel, no matter how much money Santana's invested in the actual loft, that Rachel drops her boyfriend's hand and realizes exactly what it is she wants and what she's ready for.

"Troy, I think we should break up," she says, without dramatics, without prelude, without warning.

It's callous. She's buzzed, impulsive, and maybe a little in over her head, but does it matter? She knows it's been building to this with them; she's convinced herself it was love for so long because she needed him, but it was selfish of her.

It was selfish of both them. And she should care more, she knows she should, that Troy looks so crestfallen.

"Wow," he says, absorbing this with his same quiet intensity that used to be so appealing to her. He laughs, a morbid, furious chuckle. "You know before I wasn't taking any of this seriously, but I should have, right?" Rachel crosses her arms, presses her lips together. "Holy shit," he breathes, and shakes his head in disbelieve. "This is … you're like… you want to be with her?"

Even now, even in the face of all this, Rachel can't quite commit, and she hates herself for it. "I don't know what I want, Troy," she answers softly. "I only know what I don't want, and I don't want you, not anymore."

Has this ever happened to Troy? He's gorgeous, he's beautiful and he can be sweet. He loved her once; she knows that. But she can also see his pride, the anger that's on his features that makes him look almost savage, before it falls away to that same pitiful hurt.

He whirls and flings his empty drink against the door. It crashes and splinters, and Rachel can't stop herself from jumping, yelping in surprise.

It's an impulsive move, but it seems to rid Troy of his tantrum. Now, he just stares at her with that same wounded, angry look.

"Have you talked to JoAnn about this?!"

"I shouldn't have to!"

"This isn't just us you're fucking with Rachel, you know that, right?" he asks, pleading now. "This is my career. This is your career. This is what we've worked for years for." Rachel's heart beat trips, she sucks in her breath. "You and me, we're a brand. We're Troychel. We were in this." His shoulders slump. Those broad fingers muss through his perfectly coifed hair. "Fuck, Rachel! I was gonna propose tonight!" he adds, shoving his fingers into his jeans pocket and pulling out a blue Tiffany's box. He shakes it at her.

Rachel is so overtaken with shock at the very idea she finds all she can do is stare. "You what?!"

"Fuck, JoAnn already scheduled the fucking engagement shoot!"

The wave of anger that flows through her at that little revelation gives her strength to pull out of her stupor. "Troy… did you honestly think I would have said yes?!" she hisses, wondrous in her disbelief. "After months of not seeing each other? All the times you cheated on me?!" He frowns, and Rachel presses forward, wanting desperately to grab that stupid box and shove it up his large, manly nostrils. "Posing and smiling for the cameras and having to just shut up and take it every time I hear someone laughing at me because you can't keep your dick in your pants when you're on location?"

"I'm a sex addict!" he huffs, and Rachel wants to cry with exasperation. "And you knew what it was like, Rachel. You didn't complain. Not once!"

"That's your excuse?" she snaps, frozen in disbelief. "That's your big justification? That I never seemed to care?!"

"Love and relationships are more than sex, Rachel," he lectures, and God, was he always his patronizing? "Yeah, I cheated, but I never stopped loving you. You were the one I came home to. You were the one I saw my future with!"

It's said so dramatically, so earnest, and truthfully, Rachel does appreciate a good performance. But she's no longer the young, naïve ingénue that once made Santana's breasts 'ache with rage'. She knows that's exactly what it is, a performance, done so well that she's sure even Troy believes in his own crap.

She blinks back the tears. "Save it, Troy!" she whispers. "I'm not your publicist! You can't feed me this bullshit and expect me to believe it. We're not brands! We don't turn on and off when they call 'action'! We're real people. With real feelings!"

"So don't fuck me over," he says hoarsely. "If you care so much about FEELINGS, then think about mine!"

He is flawed and he is trying. Rachel can see it. She would often tell herself that it was okay because Troy was trying, even if he was forever imperfect. But she knows now, she knows how a façade is not enough. She knows, no she's been reminded, how she deserves to have more. How she needs more. A façade isn't good enough; not anymore.

"Troy," she begins, trying very hard to keep her voice even and patient, "For once this has nothing to do with you. This is about me. This is about her," she adds miserably, throwing a hand to the metal door and the woman she knows who is waiting for her on the other side of it. "This is about the fact that I feel more for her that I have in five years with you and I think I deserve to be able to explore that." It's so… final, and she thinks maybe Troy can finally see it. Those beautiful eyes widen. He looks crestfallen. "I'm sorry Troy."

Rachel wonders honestly why she's not as heartbroken as he is; why years of a relationship could end this quickly, dismantle as flimsily as a house of cards.

Is her life that vacuous?

"This is SUCH bullshit." His outburst startles her, but before she can react, Troy is gone, whirling on his heel and stomping away from her, down the hallway and nearly knocking over one Quinn Fabray who has suddenly appeared.

The look on Quinn's face is thunderstruck.

"Uh…." Quinn shifts in the quiet that follows and shifts on her heels, before she haphazardly lifts a package of cigarettes. "I took a smoke break."

"You smoke?" Rachel asks dumbly, latching on to that fact as a distraction. She does remember Quinn catching the habit in high school as a Skank, but as far as she remembered, Quinn had given it up.

"So not the point right now," Quinn snaps, and it coils a reaction in Rachel's spine. Quinn's eyes are dark and wide. "Did you just dump Troy Ross?" she asks, laughing in disbelief.

Suddenly exhausted, Rachel is in no mood. "Don't full name him," she sighs, losing her strength as she slumps back against the wall of the hallway, purposely avoiding the suspicious brown stain two inches away. "Right now he's just my douchey-serial-cheater ex-boyfriend, Troy."

"Oh." Rachel closes her eyes and lets her head tilt back. She takes in a deep, sorrowful breath. After a moment, she feels Quinn settle in beside her.

"Wanna talk about it?" Quinn asks, gentle and sweet, because despite being an unintentional rival for the object of Rachel's very confused affections, she's also quite possibly one of Rachel's best friends.

Rachel clucks her tongue and shakes her head. "It was time to get some balls back," she answers tiredly.

Quinn smirks, and squeezes her thigh gently. "Change that to ovaries and I think you may have your official press statement."

Oh God, the tabloids. Images flash in Rachel's head, and suddenly she can see all of it, the entire shit storm of media that will occur because in her fucked up little industry, this is news.

They're going to murder her. She groans, and slumps into Quinn's shoulder, burying her face in Quinn's nape. "Crap," she whispers. "JoAnn is going to kill me."

"You didn't even talk to her?"

"No," she mumbles, and lets out another heavy breath. "It's was kind of a spur of the moment thing."

Quinn absorbs that quietly. "Rachel," she begins, voice sounding odd enough that Rachel lifts her head to regard her friend. "You dumped him to be with Santana, didn't you?"

The panic that's built abruptly at the thought of the media takes a decidedly different turn. Rachel's eyes snap open.

The dumbstruck expression her face must be all the confirmation that Quinn seems to need.

"Holy shit."

"Quinn…" Rachel's very very close to panicking, and she probably would, if she weren't distracted by the fact that Quinn is laughing, this hysterical little laughter that kind of scares Rachel to hear it.

"Wow," Quinn says, and tips the cigarette pack into her hand, matter-of-factly pulling out another stick. "God… It all makes so much sense now." She pulls out a lighter from another pocket, and Rachel wrinkles her nose as the acrid smell of the smoke invades her nostrils. She considers saying something, but one look at Quinn and the way she so methodically tilts the cigarette into her mouth and inhales deeply stops her. A plume of smoke exhales from her nostrils. "Here I thought you were just being … Rachel but no… " Blonde hair swishes with Pantene-style slow motion beauty as Quinn regards her with disturbing clarity. "You actually want her. How the hell did I not see it before?"

It feels like a betrayal. Quinn has been honest with her about her designs on their mutual friend. She's given Rachel every opportunity to say something, and yet Rachel's said nothing.

"It's not what you think." It's a feeble excuse, and it's stupid because it's exactly what Quinn is thinking.

Quinn just takes another drag from her cigarette. Rachel just watches the way the end burns into ash. After a moment, Quinn reaches forward and tips the ash onto the floor. Rachel doesn't mind. Not like this hallway can get any dirtier.

"Please tell me that when you were listening to me ramble on and on about possibly throwing myself at her you weren't already fucking her."

"I wasn't," she says immediately. "I haven't. It's not like that."

"But you've kissed her," Quinn says shrewdly. Rachel flushes and coils her fingers together. "And you want to sleep with her."

Rachel's heart twists inside of her.

The music from the party plays on. Rachel can feel the vibration at her back, like a rhythmic heartbeat. As her eyes close, she's transported back to Drew's birthday party, and the emotions invade her as they did back then. She feels the music pulse through her, feel the phantom hold of Santana in a moment that was more erotic than any she's ever experienced.

"I don't know what I want, Quinn," she says finally.

Quinn exhales brusquely. "Of course you don't," she says flatly, like she's not surprised at all. "But whatever it is, it's apparently enough to fuck over your showmance for it."

Rachel's eyes flutter in frustration.

"You know what's really messed up?" she hears. "For the first time in my life," Quinn muses, eyeing her cigarette idly as it flits on the edge of her slender fingertips. "I'm at a place in my life where I'm completely aware of who I am, what I want, how to get it. And meanwhile, you, RACHEL FRIGGIN' BERRY, who I hated in high school for knowing exactly who you were and exactly what you wanted and how you were going to get it, has absolutely no idea and is so lost she's sitting here watching me smoke a cigarette and not giving a shit." As if to prove her point, Quinn takes one last drag, sucking up the tainted smoke and blowing it in a perfect ring of circles that would be incredibly sexy in different circumstances. "It's actually really messed up."

"Quinn."

"You get tonight, Rachel," Quinn says matter-of-factly, pushing off the ground with a concentrated grunt. "I'll back off for one night and maybe that'll be enough for you to get your shit together."

Rachel blinks, completely overtaken. Quinn wears no expression. Her hazel eyes are as piercing as she's ever seen them but the cigarette is dropped to the floor and ground onto by the heel of Quinn's boot.

"Why would you do that?" Rachel asks, because even if she herself is Quinn's biggest fan, she knows Quinn is competitive and has a selfish side. She's admired it about her. "I know you want her."

Quinn's brow arches, and with an exasperated sigh, stretches out her hand for Rachel to take. "Because despite the success of love triangles in my novels," she says, just as Rachel grabs hold of her and allows herself to be pulled up. "I'm not exactly amped on getting in another one with you. Finn and Puck were more than enough." Rachel swallows, and remembers quite suddenly, how desperately she wanted Finn for herself in high school and how shameless she was trying to land him.

It seems like so very long ago, but it was Rachel's ambition, Rachel's own competitiveness that triggered it. She wonders if she ever apologized to Quinn over it.

"I'm sorry," she says, just in case.

But Quinn just rolls her eyes, shoving her pack of cigarettes in her pocket and heading for the entrance. "I saw the way she was looking at you, Rachel," she says over her shoulder. "She obviously wants you too. Do me a favor and do something about it, before I convince her you're not worth the effort."

Rachel blinks at the warning, unsure of what to do as Quinn clasps hold of the metal door and prepares to open it. "I'm serious, Rachel," she continues. "You want her? Then take her, but you better be serious about this, because after tonight, all bets are off."

* * *

Rachel has to admit, when Quinn has a plan, she seriously commits to it. Minutes after they've entered the loft, the novelist has somehow managed to bring the party to a complete halt.

Rachel isn't sure what excuse she's managed to come up with, but suddenly Rachel is overtaken by departing well-wishers, who give her long hugs and odd phrases such as 'Chin Up, Tiger', and 'It'll get better!' before they're all draping on their various overcoats and scarves and heading out.

Santana, oddly enough, is nowhere to be found.

But that doesn't distract Quinn from kicking out even Kurt, who she finds draped over the couch and half asleep cuddled up next to the hot Chorus guy. "Come on, Kurt," Quinn orders, smacking the side of his head none-too-gently to get him and the cute Chorus guy (Rachel really needs to remember his name soon) up. "Time to go."

"What?" he slurs, and wipes at some drool collected on his chin. "NO!" he blinks, and moves sluggishly anyway. "I was s'posed to stay! It's roommates' night!"

Quinn tosses a glare to Rachel, and sighs loudly. "I don't think roommates' night is going to happen tonight, Kurt."

Kurt looks so crestfallen, that Rachel immediately feels guilty. "How about breakfast tomorrow?" she offers, and then

frowns when Kurt stumbles and flings his hand over the shoulder of her Chorus Gay in an effort to stay upright. "Or brunch?" she amends, because it's obvious Kurt will be doing nothing tomorrow morning except puking and cursing God.

Speaking up, however, just makes Kurt aware of her. His bleary pupils attempt to focus on her, and when they do, he heaves a sigh of surprise. "You!" he says, shoving a finger pointedly like they're in a murder mystery and she's the suspicious butler. "Stop gay panicking! It's stupid and it makes you look stupid!"

Rachel has no actual response but a scathing glare in Quinn's direction when the other woman snorts in amusement. "From Kurt's mouth to God's ears," she says sagely, and then gets Kurt to his feet. "We'll see you tomorrow for brunch Rachel," she adds, in this sweet tone that seems oddly menacing at the same time.

Rachel can only lick her lips and nod slowly, eyes blinking closed at the deliberate kiss Quinn presses on her cheek. "She's in the studio," Quinn adds in a quiet whisper. Rachel blinks, but all Quinn does is duck her head and move around her.

In a few moments, she and Kurt and his Chorus Gay are gone, and Rachel is left alone in a seemingly empty apartment.

Empty, of course, except for the studio.

* * *

The loft is a disaster area, very much like her social life.

Rachel is as exhausted as she can ever remember being, but there is a certain quirk inside of her that makes her want to fall back into old habits and begin to collect the bottles and glasses that have been littered on every available countertop. She wants to take a rag and sop up the spilled liquor that she spies dripping on the counter.

The way it is right now, it feels like there was a rapture and she's the only one left behind. Santana's pre-mixed music plays on, thumping loudly from the expensive speakers, unaware that there's no one left to dance to its synthesized bets. Rachel shuts it off.

Maybe it's her nerves. The bedroom door is open, but the studio door is not. If Rachel wants to see Santana, she has to physically move, open the door and once again meet Santana in her own personal haven.

Before, there have been plenty of excuses why to do so would be completely innocent. Rachel could shift the blame of intent on anything other than what she wanted. She had a boyfriend, she had a single, she had a friend who liked Santana, and she had a career to worry about.

Somehow, in the scope of an evening, every single one of those challenges has been removed or seems no longer relevant and all that's left behind in a long walk across a wooden floor and a closed door.

Every single action Rachel has made tonight has been deliberate, and though she's professed over and over to not know what she wants, the reality is that she wants Santana. She wants her desperately. She desires her in a way that definitely very gay, and very primal.

It's exhilarating to understand that. It's also terrifying.

Rachel picks her way through the living room. Her fingers sweep against the sofa, and in the process, she discovers once more the picture that Santana has framed of herself on the wall.

She's in the midst of a movement, eyes closed and hand thrust heavenward. The picture is vibrant and rich and beautifully taken, and still, it seems to pale in comparison to the real thing.

Heart in her throat, Rachel drags her eyes away and heads for the studio.

* * *

Rachel doesn't knock. Maybe it's an invasion, but the door is unlocked and when Rachel quietly twists the knob and opens it, she finds that it doesn't matter, because Santana doesn't hear her come in. Instead, the other woman has settled into a comfortable looking leather chair, eyes closed as she sits and absorbs the music that blasts throughout the tiny, sound-proofed room.

A lump sticks in Rachel's throat, as she quietly takes in the scene. It's their single that Santana's listening to.

It's so easy now, to think back to the video shoot that happened only hours before, to think of the story that they told, of Santana in her saturated color, sneaking into Rachel's black and white world and dismantling her completely.

Is that what's actually happened?

Rachel knows she's been lucky. She's had a dream career. Although she hasn't been as successful as she wanted to be by this point, she's been able to make a good living out of doing what she loves. Rachel knows that with time and hard work, she will be a star.

But somehow along this journey, those colors that used to seem so alive and gorgeous became muted, and oddly enough she didn't notice, not until Santana put a pair of headphones on her and lit the match that shifted her entire perspective.

It's almost… God, it sounds silly, but it almost feels like a religious experience.

Even the smallest things seem so different. Throughout high school and their time in New York, Rachel has always aware of Santana's beauty. Santana's looks were impossible not to notice. The girl was a Coyote Ugly bartender, a cage dancer, a stunning specimen. Rachel used to look at her and envy her perfect abs, her sharp-tongued wit, her raspy range.

But now… now… that same Santana… she's gone from black and white into gorgeous full color HD, and that result is nearly overwhelming. Rachel isn't just looking at Santana and envying her beauty or her wit… no, she's astounded by her. She's weak-kneed in her presence. She looks at Santana, and she appreciates. She adores. She wants so badly to worship. She makes Rachel's flesh pebble with goose bumps and makes her knees weak with emotion, and it's both insane and utterly intoxicating that all it takes for that to happen is this image of Santana sitting in a chair, listening to the song they wrote and recorded together.

A burst of primal lust hits Rachel in such a way her breath stutters, because she wonders now, what would it would be like to fuck Santana in that chair, to their own music.

She's unprepared for Santana to open her eyes. When she does, Rachel can only stare dumbly.

Santana seems no better off. Her friend's mouth opens, closes, and then those eyes blink and refocus, as if Santana can't quite believe that it's Rachel she sees standing just inside the studio door.

When the song fades, and the loft falls into silence, Santana lifts quickly out of her chair and pushes a button on her mixing board. Her brown locks fall over her shoulder like a shimmery curtain, obscuring her features. "Party over already?"

Still not quite trusting herself to speak, Rachel just shrugs, giving herself time to catch her breath before she manages a stiff smile. "And here I thought you'd be tired of this song, considering we've sung it at least a hundred times today.

Maybe pointing out the obvious is the wrong way to go, because Santana's posture only stiffens. Rachel's teasing smile fades, and she waits, as Santana fiddles with a couple dials. The opening notes of Norah Jones' 'Turn Me On' begins, a perfectly slow and smooth tune that quietly sets the pace of this.

Rachel doesn't mind.

"Where's your boyfriend?" The sudden question seems so casually dismissive and obviously curious.

Rachel wonders if Santana has always been so openly vulnerable, and decides she's glad that maybe Santana wasn't. Rachel isn't sure she would have stood a chance in the face of this beautiful, quiet women.

"Ex-boyfriend," she says, as clear as she can. She watches carefully as Santana absorbs that with a jerk of her head. Those brown eyes finally LOOK at her, searching for confirmation, and Rachel can't help the slow, wide smile that appears on her face. "And I don't really care where he is. I came looking for you." She's being surprisingly candid and bold, considering that she's Rachel and up until yesterday very determined to sweep this under the rug.

But there's almost no other recourse, not when the way Santana stares at her is so beautifully intense. How could she have ever thought Santana didn't want her? Every muscle in Santana's face seems to twitch with absolute sincerity and quiet hope.

It's addicting, gorgeously erotic. Pulled by the magnetism of it, Rachel moves closer. Santana offers a hard swallow.

"I just assumed that-" her voice drops off when Rachel comes even closer still, until she's just a foot away from invading Santana's space.

"You assumed that you asked me a question, and I freaked out," Rachel gently guesses, because Santana would have no reason to think otherwise. "And ran off with my boyfriend?"

A heavy breath blows out of Santana's nostrils. "Something like that," she answers, half guarded.

Rachel chews on her lower lip, and closes her eyes as Norah Jones's melodic voice serenades her with her raspy, seductive sweetness. "Come here, Santana." She reaches out, slowly, carefully, until she's wrapping fingers around Santana's wrist, pulling her hand off the mixing board and pulling Santana way from her safe place.

The buzz of alcohol has faded away, and in it's place is something much deeper, richer, and intoxicating. Her heart thumps so pronouncedly it's a wonder Santana can't feel it. Rachel's infected by her affection, and it makes it so easy to take Santana's pliant hands and place them deliberately on her hips, keep them there when she begins to sway with the jazzy, bluesy tune.

Santana's eyes are so dark. She smells faintly of cigarettes and liquor, and her olive skin is smooth. Overtaken by her senses, Rachel closes her eyes and tilts her temple against Santana's cheek, sighs against the body that begins to move with her.

Unable to help herself, Rachel feels the lyrics come up inside of her. "My hi-fi is waiting for a new tune," she sings softly, head tilting so her lips brush softly against the sensitive skin of Santana's earlobe. "My glass is waiting for some fresh ice cubes…"

It would be fitting, wouldn't it? To confess herself through lyrics? Santana showed her her very soul through her dials and headphones and scratching, but all Rachel has is her voice. She feels Santana's hands press in tighter, until they are flush against each other, and Santana's eyelids flutter against her cheek.

"I'm just sitting here waiting for you…" A warm, wet mouth presses against her neck. Rachel's voice goes ragged; she presses in closer to the strong, firm body that she seems to desire so completely. "To come on home…" That mouth presses another kiss against her jaw, and Rachel's fingers somehow tangle in the nape of Santana's neck, threading through sweaty, dark locks. "-and turn me on…"

Her back hits the wall, and then there is no more singing; no more music. Norah Jones fades away and all that's left is her mouth against Santana's, her fingers in Santana's dark tresses, and the sputtering beat of her heart that tells her that this time, there will be no running.

**end chapter.**

_FYI, this isn't the end. There will be a part four. :)_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Notes: **_

_Hi guys! Once again, I'm really sorry for the delay. Work is always my priority and that often means that I don't get as much time to write as much as I should. Also, this was meant to be the last chapter, but as it quickly went over forty pages, I figured breaking it up into two chapters was a better way to go. So expect one more after this and an epilogue. _

_Also, as a reminder, after this one if finished I'm going back to finish 'Got You Stuck On My Body (Like a Tattoo)', then 'We Really Shouldn't Be Doing This' and after that 'A Little Drop of Poison'. I know that I don't update as much as people would like, and I can only ask for your patience. Believe me when I say I'm trying to go as quickly as I can. Thank you again for reading and I hope you continue to enjoy. Also, if you do get curious or you have any questions for me, I'm always reachable on my tumblr as 'nuthintasee'. Thank you!_

* * *

**PART 04.**

_Only know you've been high when you're feeling low_

_Only hate the road when you're missin' home_

_Only know you love her when you let her go_

_And you let her go_

- Passenger, Let Her Go

* * *

Kissing Santana Lopez, REALLY kissing her, is both a revelation and a relief. Rachel's body hums with the same adrenaline that coursed through her that fateful night they were reunited, when the music flowed from her with Santana's guidance, leading them both to a rocketing crescendo that had the crowd moving in one single mass, and Rachel's euphoria blasting skyward with the world's most intense high.

Or so she thought. But compared to this…

It's addicting. It's erotic. And God, Santana can kiss.

Her lips move against Rachel's, open and eager, with a soft whimper that exhales as Rachel sucks greedily on the other woman's lower lip. In response, Santana drags her tongue against her mouth and Rachel's world spins on its axis.

She's so involved, so ABSORBED, that when a palm reaches between them and softly drifts across her breast, skimming a hardening nipple, she nearly collapses back against the wall. The hard foam triangles that protrude from it push her back directly into Santana's wandering hand.

The gasp that comes in time with her suddenly weakening knees causes a moment's pause. Rachel utters an agonized moan as Santana's lips abruptly pull away from hers. Rachel's eyes open dizzily to rediscover Santana staring at her with an expression that is once both familiar and strange. Her lips are red and swollen, glistening with Rachel's own saliva.

Rachel is so drugged with want that it takes a moment of searching into Santana's nearly blown brown eyes to absorb her almost tentative hold around her waist and make actual sense of it.

"Santana…"

"Isn't this your cue to bail?" It's a throaty, soft whisper laced with a razor-sharp edge as Santana palms her breast so very gently. Rachel sucks in a noisy breath through her nose as she keens against the soft, rhythmic movement of Santana's thumb gently circles around her nipple.

"Santana," she rasps, as her eyes flutter and her insides boil.

Santana just looks at her. The expression she wears is familiar. It's the same one that seemed so unreadable the night of their first kiss and is now completely open and easy to understand. This woman's bitchy, uncaring mask has cracked away, and the result is absolutely haunting.

Santana's giving her an opportunity to leave. She's testing her. Fleeing is what Rachel's done before, in this same exact position.

It's ridiculous. Rachel has no idea how she would even begin to try to flee when every impulse inside her is telling her to stay, to love, to submit and to dominate.

Slender fingers drag across Santana's shoulders and curve over her back, until she runs into those long, dark curls that frame Santana's face so well and tangles them deliberately in her hands.

She makes no attempt to hide her hungry gaze, the way her tongue darts across her lips, or the way she pulls in ever so lightly, inching Santana closer against her until they're chest to heaving chest.

There's no room for escape. The spongy wall at her back, put in place to absorb sound, does its part to push her even further into Santana's firm, taut body. It's how Rachel wants it.

For all her high-school quips about Rachel's height, Santana is only a few inches taller than Rachel. She's smaller, decidedly feminine, such a contrast to every lover Rachel has ever had. The sinewy leanness of Santana's muscles contrasts with the softness of her full breasts, and Rachel has never been so aware of her attraction to them until they press up against her own.

"Kiss me," she whispers, grateful that for once it comes off as a demand and not a desperate plea. It might have become one if Santana had chosen that time to be difficult or resistant, but thankfully her gorgeous friend wastes no time. Hot lips slant over hers, and Rachel shudders, smile curving as those lips slide over hers again and again.

She offers her tongue, kissing Santana wetly.

"Fuck, Rachel," Santana groans, and Rachel hums at the way Santana says her name. Fingernails drag lightly against the sensitive skin at the base of Santana's sweaty neck. A growl erupts as Santana surges forward, open hands gripping fistfuls of fabric of Rachel's dress at her hips.

Santana, one of her best friends, the girl who once pressed her crotch to her ass in a drunken exasperated attempt to teach Rachel how to twerk, now rocks with her to a clumsy unheard beat, grinding into her body as their kisses grow deeper, hotter.

Somehow, Rachel's legs splay open and Santana, genius that she is, uses that opportunity to slide her thigh up against her core.

"GOD!" The pressure is relentless. Rachel groans, head falling back against the wall as she claws at Santana's neck. A dry chuckle vibrates against her. Rachel is not amused. "What?" she asks breathlessly. There is nothing funny about the way Santana's grinding so perfectly against her. _Fuck._ Nothing at all.

"It's just… I just… " Santana's labored words muffle against her skin. Hands spread broadly against her waist, and Rachel cradles the brunette head in her hands as Santana's forehead falls against her shoulder. The rhythm they fall into quickens, and Rachel can't stop her hips as they shift wantonly against the toned muscle of Santana's thigh. A heavy chuckle flutters across the skin of her chest, "I can't believe this is happening."

Teeth graze against her collarbone; a tongue drags against her skin. Rachel suppresses a shudder. "Oh yeah?"

Another harsh, throaty laugh is let loose, so drowned in lust Rachel can't help but drags her fingers pleadingly through that heavy, dark hair. "I've wanted you since-"

Her body arches. Rachel catches hold of Santana's chin, lifting up until she's smiling breathlessly into dark, riveting eyes. "Drew's party?" she asks knowingly.

Santana's lips press together, and her attention focuses instead on Rachel's cleavage, smoothing a finger across the sensitive skin, following the line of the dress as she skims across one pert bauble. "Maybe before then," she admits quietly.

It's a quiet revelation, but to Rachel, it feels like her very world has been shaken. In her arms is an amazingly fragile woman, with words that usually spark like flint, who has taken everything she's thought she's known and utterly dismantled it, dismantled _her_.

An open, wet mouth paints soft kisses along her collarbone, leaving moist skin that tingles in her wake. Rachel's eyes flutter as she struggles to maintain her focus.

"Santana…" she breathes, and listens with bated breath as Santana hums against her, teeth dragging over the top of her breast, as open hands press possessively to her waist, keeping her still. Rachel's fingers, still buried in that sweaty, beautiful hair, pull until Santana's mouth lifts off her skin.

Sparkling, hooded eyes just stare at her. Rachel confesses the only truth she knows. "I want you too."

It's not meant to be a trigger, just an admission. But her eyes water with her sincerity, because it's NOT just lust that she means, and she thinks Santana knows that.

She surges forward just as Santana's lips meet her halfway, moan buried in Santana's mouth. Her body reacts, hips shifting, bucking against the lean form. Her hands hold Santana's face, cradle it carefully as Santana's deep, intoxicating kisses grow possessive and more intense. Fingernails skim across her thighs, and suddenly hands are dragging up her body, taking the fabric of her dress with them.

Rachel has no complaints, and voices no displeasure at the way Santana's pulling her dress up over her until their kiss breaks, long enough for Rachel's dress to be dragged up over her head and tossed to the floor.

Rachel leans forward immediately; eager to recapture Santana's mouth with her own, but now Santana is distracted. "Fuck," she hears, and watches as Santana's eyes widen, gaze blanketing Rachel's exposed body with sheer want. "God, how the hell…"

"What?" she asks, breathless, but the curiosity flees as Santana's head lowers and suddenly the cup of her left breast is lifted and her nipple is covered by Santana's warm mouth. She feels the pressure of a tongue dragging flatly across it and her arms flail, before they land heavily on Santana's shoulders as her head reels back. "Santana-"

"Yes, Rachel?" she hears, and looks down dizzily to see that damn SMIRK that curls on Santana's mouth, just as her tongue swirls around the colored tip of her breast. "Something I can help you with?"

There's plenty. Rachel's body is throbbing. Her hips are now bucking desperately of their own accord, and the spongy triangles that cover the wall behind her dig into her bare back, causing an uncomfortable friction that would be distracting were it not for the rapt attention Santana's paying to her nipple.

Fingers slide teasingly behind her, until they reach around and work quickly at her bra clasp. Immediately, the straps loosen from around her shoulders, letting her breasts spill free.

It seems, the more naked Rachel is becoming, the lazier Santana is getting. Her bra dangles on her forearms, trapping her from doing anything but threading her fingers through Santana's already messy hair, eyes fluttering, pressing kisses against the top of Santana's head as Santana takes her time with her breasts, keeping her pressed against that fucking spongy wall.

She's not ready for the way Santana's hands press and massage their way down to her hips, until digits tuck under the waistband of her thong and with a sudden force, shoves them off her waist and down her thighs.

She's exposed, literally and figuratively, and drugged with lust and want and that emotion that comes from being mauled with affection, Rachel can't bring herself to care. Not when Santana's mouth lifts off her breast and begins to kiss and suckle at the skin underneath, dragging teeth along her sensitive stomach.

Strong hands push at her thighs. Rachel teeters dizzily on her heels as she rebalances herself, looks down her naked body to see the way Santana inhales against the sensitive indention of her hip. "God, Rachel."

"What?" she asks, oddly tender. She scratches lightly at Santana's hair, careful and gentle.

Santana shudders underneath her touch. That low moan escapes her again, and Rachel swallows hard as her hips buck in reaction.

"You smell amazing."

God. Rachel licks her lips, because she knows how wet she is… she can feel it… "Do I?" she asks. "Can you smell how wet I am for you?" There's no denying it, and there's no care to, not when Santana's fingers travel from her thigh to between her lips, dragging against her slit with such delicate exploration Rachel's knees buckle from it.

"I can feel it, too," Santana says, only barely audible above the blood that rushes in Rachel's ears. Rachel's teeth dig on her lip, her thighs quiver, and she wants so badly to let her head fall back and just FEEL the way Santana touches her.

She holds on, fingers slipping out of Santana's hair to brace herself on those strong shoulders, because she wants to look. Santana's dark eyes stare up at her with something like wonder, as if she can't quite believe – GOD –

Two fingers swirl around her clit easily; Rachel knows she's practically coating Santana's fingers. Her insides clench, because Santana's being SO DAMN DELICATE and…

She loses the battle. Her head falls back, all awareness lost but for the way Santana is exploring her.

"Santana," she manages, as those maddeningly light fingers press down firmly, slipping down until they're circling against her, pressed up just inside. "Please."

"Fuck, Rachel." Santana's voice is low… thick. "You want me this much?"

Any other time, Rachel may have laughed, because she's practically dripping on Santana's fingers, and quite close to teetering and breaking her ankle thanks to trying to balance on her heels with shaking legs. She's also reasonably sure she's never been this close to a heart attack.

But Santana's fingers linger, and the look on her face…

She's astounded.

Affection rushes through Rachel like a cascading wave. It stills her, quiets her need and makes her achingly aware of her beating heart, thumping almost painfully against her chest. Sucking in a deep, harsh breath, Rachel answers quietly, "Yeah baby, I want you…" She feels her body move, eyes fluttering as those fingers sink further inside her. "God, I want you so much."

And Santana stills, just short of filling her completely. "How much, Rachel?" she asks, full lips pressing lightly against her, teasing her sensitive skin and … fuck, Rachel wants her mouth. She wants her mouth…

But the image that Santana's presenting… it makes her want something else more. "How about I show you?" she asks, voice shaking only slightly before she gathers as much strength as she can and pulls Santana up. There's a mild protest, both from her own aching groin and Santana herself. She quiets both with a questing kiss that explores Santana's mouth with hunger and passion. The arguments die into groans, before Santana's kissing her back just as intimately, tongue rubbing eagerly against her as Rachel fumbles for the fabric at Santana's thighs.

The bouncy wall helps her now, as she pushes back against it and uses the adrenaline to send Santana sprawling back into her chair, her dress bunched up at her waist. Santana's flailing fingers hit something on her mixing board, and the music comes roaring back.

It's a synthesized techno beat that fills the room, and though it's not the sexy, haunting sweetness of Norah Jones, Rachel doesn't mind. It seems to fit, honestly. This music IS Santana now, a perfect storm of synthesized notes and pulses, creating a beautiful harmony that's unique. The beat courses through her in her veins, gives her a rhythm to move to as she straddles Santana and takes her mouth again. As they kiss, her fingers slide between them, a wide open palm skimming past the bunched up fabric and underneath silk, until she's dipping into Santana's wet, sensitive folds, and feeling the whimper that Santana moans against her mouth.

Two fingers slide into Santana, and that's how it begins: her first time with Santana happens in a studio, with music blaring so loudly it jars her ears, thumping time with her own heartbeat. The cacophony of sensation is like an orchestrated masterpiece, and she loves it.

She loves the burn in her forearm, the way Santana's nails scratch against her bicep and her shoulders, stinging welts that only make the moment that much more real and intense. She loves the harsh breathing that overtakes their kisses when the sensations prove too much. The mewl she lets out when Santana feverishly slides her own hand between Rachel's legs, and fucks her to Rachel's own rhythm.

There's nothing that exists but the music, the beat, and the intimacy of being buried in Santana at the exact moment Santana pushes inside of her. It's sex, but it's more. Sweat beads on Rachel's upper lip, and her eyes grow wet with moisture, because Santana is inside of her and around her, and sliding slick skin against her, and she can FEEL it in a way she's never felt anything before.

Her orgasm hits her with the high of a perfect performance, but there is no spotlight and Rachel isn't alone on a stage. She collapses with fingers surrounded with twitching muscles and the ache of Santana's fingers inside of her, naked in a chair, wrapped around her best friend and engulfed in the music.

Her heart races, her eyes flutter, and Rachel's lips press breathlessly against a salty, sweaty neck.

* * *

It feels like home.

When Rachel closes her eyes, she imagines herself transported through time. She hears the soft growl of the engines as cars sweep by on the streets below and imagines lying alone on soft sheets, curtains surrounding her instead of walls. She imagines the soft coughs and low whispers of sounds that float through fabric, and struggles to imagine the scent and the coolness of these sheets had another body not been sharing them with her.

But then she registers the soft skin of Santana blanketing her naked body with a delicious heat that leaves her both oddly sated and curiously wanting more. Rachel wonders, for perhaps the tenth time since this evening took a lustful turn, if this was in any way possible all that time ago, when they were nobodies and aspiring stars and roommates.

Maybe it was, way back then.

Her eyes flutter as Santana presses soft, suckling kisses on the curve of her neck, hands possessive as fingertips calloused from mixing board buttons and keyboards skim tender along the sensitive underside of her breast. She lets out a low, soft moan. Rachel decides it doesn't matter if it could have happened. Because it has happened right now.

She turns into Santana's slender arms and opens her lips hungrily against her lover's (is that odd? To consider Santana that already?). She thought it would be odd, to bury herself closer and feel soft skin instead of the maleness of body hair, to feel the drag of breasts smashing softly against her own and the wetness of a woman's arousal painting against her lower thigh as she shifts in Santana's arms.

It doesn't. Rachel feels… safe. Relieved. Enchanted.

Maybe there are no curtains, but the walls are stronger and do their part to block out the world. Rachel wants nothing more than to exist in this vacuum for as long as possible.

The buzzing of her cellphone, however, seems determined to provide the intrusion. "Augh," she groans, huffing against Santana's addictive mouth when it again begins to vibrate insistently against Santana's wooden night stand.

Santana's lips pull back only slightly, ghost against hers as she asks in a low, rough tone, "Who is it?"

Rachel doesn't know and doesn't want to care. She sighs, forehead tilting against Santana's brow as she reaches up and presses her palm flat against Santana's cheek. "Probably JoAnn," she surmises softly and doesn't bother to check. "Calling to yell at me about how I ended things with Troy."

The name of her very recent ex causes the woman in her arms to stiffen slightly. Addicted, Rachel only shifts in closer against Santana's naked form, hooking her calf over Santana's to keep her intimately close. Santana's fingers skim against her forehead, dragging a lock of hair away that covers her eye. "Don't tell me you regret it."

That Santana would even begin to think that after the last couple of hours is almost amusing. "Are you kidding?" she asks. The sheets are rumpled, but she's beginning to feel the chill of the night, and finds herself burrowing further into Santana's arms, unable to resist planting a couple tender kisses along the crest of Santana's brow, the bridge of her nose, and finally into the soft pillow of her lips before she readjust herself to settle against the other woman's collarbone. From here, she can feel the low thump of Santana's heartbeat, bumping up at her from underneath Santana's skin. "The only thing I regret is not doing it sooner." It's slightly sobering to realize that she's utterly sincere.

The phone buzzes, and Rachel's jaw hardens.

Fingers thread through her wild, sweaty hair, before skimming along the raised skin of her naked back. "Why didn't you do it sooner?"

It's a valid question. Rachel isn't sure why it causes her throat to close up the way it does. "I guess I was afraid."

The fingers that were only touching lightly now settle flat against the small of her back, keeping her closely curled into Santana. Rachel has no complaints. "I guess I know something about that," she hears in a heavy sigh.

It's must be just before dawn. She and Santana have slept together after weeks of both denial and dancing around their flirtation and attraction. Now, she's sticky and sweaty and the room smells like sex. Her body is plastered against Santana's, the taste of her lingers on her mouth. Her muscles ache with the best kind of satisfaction, and her lips are swollen with Santana's kisses.

There still has been no actual conversation, and it bothers Rachel. Isn't that what she would do normally? Discuss what's happened? What's changed? Process and absorb it?

God, is that a really lesbian thing to want to do?

She can't help herself. Feeling oddly shaken, Rachel swallows hard, breathes deep through her nose and reaches for Santana's hand, playing idly with her fingers, locking and detaching in distraction. "Do you want to talk about this?"

The body beneath her shifts, letting the sheet that only half covers them fall until Santana's entire torso is bared. She's beautiful in this moonlight, absolutely gorgeous, ravished and sated. Rachel presses a soft, suckling kiss against Santana's dark nipple, teasing around it with her tongue. Santana's body slowly arches underneath her mouth, exhaling raggedly. "Doesn't feel like you want to," she breathes.

Rachel's next kiss lingers, seemingly proving Santana's point as she opens her mouth over the full breast and tastes the salty skin, feeling the nipple harden in her mouth. She shudders, feels her heart pound, and she lifts her head. Dark, hooded eyes study her intently. "Only about the way you make me feel," she whispers quietly.

Santana absorbs that, and seems to accept it. Fingers play against her nape, keeping her close, reverent of the moment. "How do I make you feel, Rachel?" Santana asks, as if this isn't the question that Rachel has been avoiding forever.

Rachel wonders how she can be so sure of Santana's feelings when she's never had to use words at all. Santana's always used words but they've never been what she's actually meant. They felt like code, told beneath the icy insults and warm warms.

Sometimes Rachel still gets so stuck in the Santana she remembers from high school, who was so terrified and in the closet, denying anything and everything that would show even a glimmer into her true self.

Rachel remembers once, after Brittany and Santana officially came out as a couple and were nominated for Prom King and Queen respectively, Brittany bragging to Quinn that she had always known that once Santana stopped hiding and showed who she really was, everyone would love her like Brittany did.

Rachel was amused at the time when Brittany also said that had she known how much the online lesbians would love Santana, she would have been a little less enthusiastic about releasing that sex tape.

She's not laughing now. Not a tiny bit. Santana, who expresses herself with music and emotions shown in those deep, brown eyes, seems impossible not to love. It makes Rachel ache, how impossible it all is.

She presses against Santana's ribs, lingering as she lifts up and resettles herself on top of Santana, chin resting delicately against her friend's chest to regard her and her haunting beauty. "You make me feel like a song, Santana," she admits quietly, and she feels more than naked. "Like a delicious harmony."

She deserves a kiss after that, she knows she does, but even as she reaches up, Santana avoids her mouth. She offers instead a smirk and a press of her index finger against Rachel's lips, halting her progress. "If this is your way of getting another song out of me then I'mma need to refer you to my agents."

"Shut up," she whispers, laughing as she says it, "You know what I'm talking about." She determinedly swats Santana's hand away and gets her kiss, deep and wet and so hungry she feels the arousal that has been simmering in the background of her mind come full force with an ache between her legs and a stammering beat of her heart.

Her hips thrust instinctively. Santana follows suit, and Rachel groans at the sensation. There's temptation to let her hands wander to the distracting wetness that she can feel against her thigh. Santana's moans are like tinder to her lustful spark.

But Rachel's insecurities resurface like a bad habit, and it causes her to grab hold of the hands that are now wandering down her chest and tangle them in her own, pinning them on either side of Santana's body. Santana allows it, eyes glittering up at her as Rachel straddles her, letting her brown locks sweep down around them like a curtain, providing yet one more measure of privacy from the outside world. "Don't you?" she asks softly.

Santana's head falls back to the pillow. She looks contemplative in the quiet. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't." Rachel's smile twitches with a bittersweet smile, but Santana just continues, "I mean, don't get me wrong, there's a part of me that keeps wanting to scream internally because it's Rachel Berry that's doing this to me…" she punctuates that with a slight buck of her hips, and it's very clear what 'this' is. Rachel bites down on her lip and forces her hips to keep from responding in kind. "But… it's been a long time since I was that scared little girl in high school, Rachel."

That's true. It was both surprising and yet not to realize that Santana's meanness stemmed from all that fear she was living in. The woman she has become, with her tattoos and her wild dark hair and her music, is poised and … not quite sweet but… human. Deliciously brave.

It makes Rachel feel silly, inconsequential in comparison. "I'm still scared, I guess."

Santana's lips press together, her expression unreadable. Her fingers tighten on Rachel's keeping her still. "Of course you are, Rachel," she whispers, kinder than Rachel might expect. "As an adult, there's lot more to be scared of. Especially in this fucked up industry."

It's ridiculously wise, considering the source.

"And how do you handle it?" Rachel asks, eyes on their fingers as they skim and swirl against each other's, tiny intimate touches that seems so powerful and sweet.

Santana shrugs, content, it seems, to let Rachel play as she settles back against the bed, chest lifting up and down with her even breaths. "I just lock myself in that room, and I get lost in the music, and that big scary world seems … I dunno… a little smaller."

Rachel's reminded vividly of earlier this evening, and the way she found Santana, locked in her studio with the blasting speakers, listening to their song, lost in the thought that once again Rachel flew away from this.

It seems too ridiculous now to consider in the wake of what's happened since then, but Rachel knows herself. There's a phone buzzing on a dresser and there's Troy to consider and a single that's about to be released and a career she's put aside for the pleasure of Santana.

The fear isn't as far away as she wishes it would be. Rachel's fingers clench, tug lightly until she brings their entwined hands between them, locked together at Santana's chest.

"Can it be just me and you for a little while longer?" she asks, soft and scared.

Santana's breath exhales, floating lightly across her fingertips. "Is that what you want?" she asks, and Rachel knows Santana understands what she's asking.

"Just for now," she promises, and opens their arms, providing space for her to lean down, press a long, gentle kiss against Santana's jaw, her collarbone, her cheek. "Just me and you," she whispers, nearly begging, because she can't take not having this.

Santana's mouth opens under hers. Rachel's tongue sweeps against her mouth, dipping in to rub against Santana's, licking at her teeth and sucking hard. Her heart trembles.

Long seconds later, she breaks the hungry kiss to press her mouth to Santana's beating pulse. "Okay," she hears, and the blood rushes in her ears as her fingers boldly spread against Santana's chest, journeying south. "Just me and you," Santana agrees, and sighs as Rachel's fingers slide easily inside of her. "Just for now."

It's a promise. Rachel bites down on Santana's tender skin, thankful for walls instead of curtains, and a buzzing phone instead of a ringing one.

* * *

She's awoken from deep sleep by the shift of Santana beside her. Rachel's focus is bleary, awareness almost painful. Light streams through Santana's curtains and it makes her wince and groan unintentionally.

The movement against her pauses. Rachel takes the opportunity to snuggle into Santana's shoulder blades, scrunching her eyes shut. Her arms wrap tight around the warm torso, tangling fingers at Santana's flat tummy.

She feels the rumble of a chuckle underneath her touch. "Good morning."

It's morning.

"Augh no," she growls, pityingly pathetic. "No good morning."

"No?"

"Mmm-mmm," she says, and tangles her legs with Santana, holding her lover hostage. Santana seems to offer no complaint, bringing her palms to rest over Rachel's, allowing her to have her childish moment.

"Since when are you not a morning person, Berry?" comes the low, husky observation.

It's more than that, really, but still caught in a half dizzy sleepy haze, Rachel has no capacity to offer more than, "Mornings suck."

Of course she doesn't always feel that way. Rachel has always been quite disciplined about getting up for her morning workouts. Maybe if they were in some far off cabin in the wilderness, with beautiful sparrows tweeting their morning songs and the rush of the nearby river providing a sweet harmony along with the strong and bitter smell of coffee tingling her nostrils, she may feel differently, but…

But no. They are in New York, and though Rachel loves New York and knows that it is home to her, the only cooing birds are pigeons (she hates pigeons), and the only rush she hears is that of the morning traffic on the streets below. Coffee? Well that's more reasonable, but Rachel finds her addiction is tempered in the face of her more pressing need to stay in bed with Santana.

Years ago, she and Santana's friendship had involved physical affection, but it was platonic. Touching became sweet and comfortable, and more than once Rachel found herself thoughtlessly reaching for Santana's fingers to pull her with her or to find a special sort of comfort. In the strange city of New York, Rachel knew that the affectionate nudges of Santana and even Kurt could mean the world.

It was something she realized she had sorely come to miss.

To remember where she has come from, and realize where she is now, is sobering. Rachel presses her cheek against the back of Santana's shoulder and rubs her face against the soft skin. She's warm and safe, and for the first time in months, utterly sure of her place and her feelings.

It's an overwhelming realization, made even sweeter when Santana reaches back with her hand and lifts her chin, until their mouths are meeting in a lingering kiss.

Rachel's heart jumpstarts into an excited pattering. She shifts her position, leaning up until she can deepen the kiss, press Santana back further into her pillows.

"Rachel…"

Rachel's mouth lingers, pressing tiny bits of pressure against Santana's upper lip. "What?" she asks, tone lower than she expects it, stirrings of arousal guiding her as she feels the way Santana responds to her, uttering soft huffs of sweet lust, arching delicately into her.

"I need to pee."

It takes a moment to register the clearly pained and conflicted comment. Rachel blinks for a moment, and releases a mixture of a groan and a chuckle that works its way out of her throat. With a bitten in sigh, Rachel presses another open-mouthed kiss to Santana's neck, and then grudgingly untangles herself, setting her hostage free.

The impromptu make out session has given her back her alertness, at least. But the laziness is slower to dissipate. The bed still holds Santana's warmth, and Rachel is in no mood to do anything but settle back, head resting on her palm as her eyes linger appreciatively on the view she's presented. It's a thrill to have this permission to stare unabashedly. Even as roommates, Santana was never shy with her body, but Rachel, unused to Cheerios locker rooms or Santana's own body confidence, never allowed herself to really look.

She's determined to make up for lost time, because honestly, it's a shame that she didn't. Her lover slips out of the bed and pads across the wooden floor like it's a sexy sort of runway. Santana's nude body is all tan skin and lean muscle.

It's a sight to behold. The petty part of Rachel feels oddly primal: there are bruises that mar Santana's back, throat and chest, dark spots on the tan skin that are reminders of the passionate night between them.

Rachel's fingers tighten against the sheets, teeth pressing achingly against her lip as Santana turns and catches her staring. In the midst of pulling on a tiny, silk robe, Santana runs her fingers through her wild dark hair, doing very little to tame it, and offers her a raised brow that shouldn't be nearly as sexy as it is. "You're drooling, Rachel."

Unashamed, Rachel just offers a self-satisfied hum. "Can you blame me? Look at you."

"I prefer my view, thanks."

Language is a funny thing. It's just a sentence, but coupled with the hooded lust that darkens Santana's gaze, the way Rachel allows her to look, and hungrily looks back…

All night wasn't enough.

And then comes the buzzing. Rachel blinks away her haze, unable to comprehend at first that it is in fact her phone, and that the damn thing has a battery that's seemingly never running out.

"Okay, you have to deal with that shit because it's annoying," she hears, and grumbles her agreement. She's cut off when Santana suddenly leans forward on the bed, shifting the balance and letting Rachel settle into her lips with a soft, lingering kiss.

It's electrifying. Rachel hums in pleasure, eyes floating shut as she opens her mouth enthusiastically and reaches up to slide her hand against Santana's nape, extending the kiss. "One more," she bargains the moment Santana tries to pull away, and smirks at the playful roll of Santana's eyes. It works though, and she's given another deeper, longer kiss that's somehow sweeter in comparison.

"Answer your phone," Santana mumbles against her mouth. "And then you can join me in the shower."

Another playful swat and Santana's on her way, rounding the bed and stopping by the dresser to grab hold of the offending phone, tossing it pointedly on the bed.

Rachel is left alone, naked on the sheets with a phone that looks like a stain on the white sheets, black and blotchy with its arrogance. It's the outside world, insisting to be let back in.

It's easier to feel petulant and stubborn right now than be an adult.

When she answers that phone, there will be conversation, decisions, anger and accusations. There will be press statements and strategy, and unsolicited advice that Rachel is very sure will lead to her publicist and her manager advising her quite strongly that the closet is a very attractive place to be in for a celebrity on the rise.

Then will come the part where she has to explain all of that to Santana, who has already burst open her closet door, is out and proud and can't even walk next to a gorgeous woman without the tabloids talking about it.

How can she even begin to have that discussion with her team when she hasn't really talked to Santana about what this night even means?

And Troy. God. At some point she'll have to work out how to even begin moving Troy out of her condo and out of her life. Because they've been together for years and the shit storm that will hit now that they've broken up…

Rachel's heartbeat thuds painfully in her chest, and she casts another longing look to the closed bedroom door.

The phone goes still. Rachel curls her knees up against her body and waits. On cue, it immediately begins to buzz again.

God, okay.

Her fingers close around the cell phone, and with a soldiering, steadying breath, Rachel licks her lips, curls the sheets around her naked waist, and takes the call.

"Hi, JoAnn," she begins, as polite as she can. The sinking optimist in Rachel hopes that JoAnn will be amused by this whole thing. It's a long shot but-

"Where the FUCK have you been?" she hears, and winces in reaction. Definitely not amused. "Do you have any idea how many times I've called you?"

Rachel runs her tongue over her bottom lip and resists the urge to fine out. "I haven't actually checked," Rachel admits, "But a fair amount, I imagine."

There's a pause, like JoAnn isn't quite sure what to do with her dry reply. "God-dammit, Rachel."

And that's how Rachel knows it's bad. JoAnn has never sounded this actively disappointed. Rachel's stomach turns. Her fingers twist over each other. "Look, I know I should have talked to you about dumping Troy, but honestly, it was my decision and –"

"And what?" JoAnn snaps, cutting into her decidedly firm statement. "You couldn't wait a fucking day to talk to me about it?"

She feels a twinge of annoyance, and is grateful for it. "You're not my life coach, JoAnn," she responds, voice raising. "You're my publicist!"

"No fucking shit, Rachel," JoAnn sneers. "And you're my client," she continues, sounding out the hard C like a curse word. "Which means you pay me to guide your career, find you work, and raise your profile. All of which I'm more than happy to do, unless you FUCK IT!"

A knot of emotion works its way into a lump in Rachel's throat, making it physically painful to swallow. Rachel pushes off the bed. "It's just a break up!" she insists. Agitation is beginning to take hold. Suddenly, Rachel is no longer comfortable with her nakedness. She searches for her clothing. "And I'd like to think I have more going for me right now than just my relationship with an alcoholic serial cheater."

"Well thanks to the shit you've pulled, Rachel, right now your relationship is all anyone cares about," JoAnn spits, and doesn't wait for Rachel to even begin to process that before she continues, "You haven't checked TMZ or the Blogs or Google News or Buzzfeed, have you? Of course you haven't," she rambles on, before Rachel can get a word in, "How about you check your email, Super Star?"

And no, that's not good. That's never good.

Rachel forgets about her clothes. She forgets to even breathe. Sinking down on the edge of Santana's bed in a room that still smells like sweat and sex and perfume, Rachel puts her phone on speaker and turns the device in her hands. Her fingers shake despite her determination when she sees at a least a dozen emails from JoAnn, her agents, and various friends that are bold and unread. Rachel opens the latest one, and sees the Google Alerts headline:

'TROY ROSS ARRESTED FOR DRUNK DRIVING', it says. Rachel's jaw tightens. She forces herself to keep reading. 'TROY ROSS BLAMES RACHEL BERRY'S LESBIAN FLING FOR RELAPSE.'

With an unsteady sigh and blurry vision, Rachel pushes out a hot breath and clicks on the link to bring up a TMZ video link that begins to load and play. Rachel's ears pound, but she manages to hear the story, told gleefully by the reporter, of Troy being caught in a speed trap and being arrested for driving under the influence. And yes, of course, paparazzi are there, because they're the ones that followed him from the party at Santana Lopez's known flat. They keep the camera on him as the police try and push them away, and Troy states in a bold, angry, drunken slur that Rachel's his fucking problem because she fucked him over by leaving him for that 'fucking dyke DJ'.

The phone falls from her fingers, cushioned when it lands on Santana's expensive comforter. "Oh my God," she whispers, because it's bad. She knows it's terrible.

"Yeah, Rachel, let that sink in." JoAnn's voice is tinny and muffled as it blasts from the speaker. "Your alcoholic ex-boyfriend has basically told the entire world that you dumped him for a famous slutty lesbian and broke his heart, forcing him into a relapse."

Rachel has no words. The bed, previously so warm and comfortable, feels suddenly awkward and stifling. Rachel pushes unsteadily to her feet, and forces herself to breathe, push back against the nauseous feeling that paralyzes her.

"Rachel…" JoAnn's voice continues to bleat at her, and Rachel's eyes shut tight as her fingers dig into her hair, pulling tight as she struggles to get her screaming mind to stop for even just a moment. "Tell me that that isn't what actually happened."

She takes comfort in habit, and shifts her cellphone off speaker to bring it up to her ear, doing her best to just breathe. "It's…" Rachel finds the large mirror that stands in Santana's room, offering her a blatant view of her naked, thoroughly fucked body; the visible marks on her neck and her thigh, the rumpled bed behind her. "It's not what it sounds like," she manages wildly, unsure if she's trying to convince JoAnn or herself. "It's not like that. Santana and I care about each other-"

A loud rush of breath crackles noise through her phone, pounding her eardrums painfully. "God-dammit, Rachel, you're fucking smarter than this. Do you think the press is gonna give a shit about whether or not you're in LOVE?" Rachel's chest constricts, and she tries to force herself to breathe as she tears her eyes away from the mirror. "Do you think you and Troy's fans will? As far as anyone is concerned, you're the bitch who broke his heart and ruined his career."

"That's not fair!" she snaps heatedly. "I didn't put the drink in his hand, JoAnn. I didn't ASK him to show up last night. I'm the idiot who stood by him every time he cheated-"

"Uh-huh, and when that married director got caught with his tongue down Kristin Stewart's throat or Robin Thicke practically got his dick sucked on stage by Miley Cyrus while his wife and kid watched, who did the media blame? Here's a hint, Rachel – it wasn't the guy."

Rachel feels the sudden urge to sob. Her anger is real. Her desperation is real, and it's all coming at her in a place where she thought, for once, she was safe.

"This is so stupid," she manages. An evening making love to her best friend shouldn't END like this.

"If I agree with you, will you calm down and listen to me?" Rachel's uneven breathing shudders, but she nods quietly. JoAnn must take her silence as agreement, because she continues. "Tell me the truth. I know you sublet Santana's apartment. Did Santana spend the night with you?"

Rachel's eyes close in helpless resignation. "She's in the bathroom."

"Fuck."

Rachel's heart leaps, and she sucks in her breath. "JoAnn… Look, whatever's going on with Santana and me… the press doesn't have to know right away, okay? It's not like we're ready to go public. And Santana's already agreed to keep this to ourselves for now, so... It's fine." As soon as those words leave her mouth, Rachel knows it's exactly the wrong thing to say.

"IT'S FINE?"

"In a month no one will care!" she snaps, and desperately hopes it's true. It has to be.

But JoAnn huffs and laughs horribly. "Rachel, there are ten thousand pictures of you two at your stupid party last night all over Instagram and Twitter. So thanks to your gossipy castmates, the press already knows that Santana's in town, and they know you're staying at her loft, and they know that Troy left last night and YOU and Santana didn't. So excuse my language, but you're a fucking idiot if you think that they haven't put it together that you're right there right now with her."

That horrible, horrible feeling that has cramped Rachel's chest and constricted it to the point of choking, tightens even more and forces a dreadful gasp out of her. With wooden feet, Rachel stumbles to the window, and flutters the curtain to look down below.

Like blotchy bugs on pavement, she sees a crowd of men, scrunched together with cameras and backwards baseball caps, chewing on hot dogs and sitting on the stoop as if they're tailgating for the Yankee's game.

The horror is overwhelming. "JoAnn they're outside."

"Of course they're outside," JoAnn snaps.

Rachel's eyes shut tight; her head falls against the wall, and she clutches her phone, currently her only life line against this nightmare. "JoAnn, tell me what to do."

"Get the fuck out of there," is the immediate response. "I came into town early this morning, and there's a car outside of your place waiting for you. You will get into the car, come to me, and then we will deal with this."

Rachel nods violently, turns and then immediately stops when she discovers Santana, beautiful, gorgeous Santana, standing just inside the doorway, arms crossed and brown eyes dark and full of obvious concern.

Rachel wants so badly to just crumble. "Santana," she begins.

"FORGET Santana," JoAnn shouts, and it makes her jump. "Right now, you can't afford to think about Santana, Rachel. Just get out of there, you can worry about Santana later, once I talk to her team and figure out how to spin this."

The call disconnects, and leaves her with nothing but empty silence and the weight of Santana's stare.

Rachel has no idea what to do.

"Are you okay?" she hears, just above the buzzing in her ears. Rachel's eyes lift, catch the way her friend stands awkwardly, hauntingly beautiful with her hair damp and that silk kimono clinging to every single curve thanks to her wet skin.

It makes her ache, and suddenly Rachel wants very badly to forget JoAnn, forget that car, to bury herself in Santana's arms, and just like she did last night, lost herself in Santana's comfrot… push all of this away.

Her eyes water as she feels the crushing pressure on her chest. "Santana-"

"You're not the only one who got a call from their publicist, Rachel," Santana says. Rachel's eyes shift and catch Santana phone in her hand. She's got a tight frown, and it's then that Rachel realizes there is no going back. Even Santana has been affected by this…

Nothing is going to be the same, and nothing is going to be just for them… not anymore.

The panic pushes her into mobility. "I need to go," she breathes, awkward as hell in her nakedness as she rounds the bed, eyelids lowered as she curves around Santana and heads for the studio across the hall. "JoAnn's sent a car for me and she wants me to meet her so she can figure this out-"

She finds her dress, scattered over Santana's sound board and reaches for it, eyes searching wildly for where her bra may have landed. She dimly registers Santana leaning across the doorway. "Rachel."

Rachel's nearly trips as she tries to slip on her heels, and her head drops in frustration because WHAT IS SHE DOING?! She's been living here for weeks. She has other clothes. Quickly, she lets the shoes fall back and turns abruptly, once again shoving past Santana to get to the bedroom.

"Rachel!"

She makes it to the dresser, half stuffed with her clothes, because like an idiot, Rachel's made herself at home in Santana's apartment. She struggles to step into a pair of clean panties.

The pressure of a warm hand slides on her shoulder, and Rachel finds herself reacting immediately, whirling and knocking the contact away. "It's all gone to shit, Santana!" Her eyes are wild, her movements shaky, and still Santana just stares at her, with those full lips and deep, concerned brown eyes. "And there's paparazzi outside and … it's just all gotten fucked."

Dark eyes flicker past Rachel to the open window and back again, before Rachel hears a heavy breath and once again, those tempting hands are sliding over her shoulders, drawing her in. "Hey…" Rachel's eyes flutter as soft lips brush comfortingly along her temple, and suddenly she's helpless, leaning into Santana's damp frame, breathing in the clean skin and the scent of her Neutrogena body wash. "Rachel… Look, it's not that bad."

Rachel feels herself stiffen. "Not that bad?!"

Santana remains infuriatingly stoic, giving her nothing more than a soft shrug as Rachel pulls back. "It's just press, Rachel. It'll blow over."

And this is what has always been infuriating about Santana: her willingness to just… dismiss things as simple, no matter how complicated they could actually be. "It's not just press, Santana," she snaps, brushing off Santana's embrace more roughly than she initially intends. "This is… this is my reputation." Santana's lips press together in reaction, but she keeps her hands to herself and Rachel feels her face flame with annoyance. "This is my career. The entire country thinks I'm a cheating …"

"… lesbian?" Santana asks, with a pointed arc of her brow that makes Rachel immediately flush. "Cause that's fucking terrible."

"Stop it," she breathes, but turns away anyway, finding a bra and clumsily sliding the straps over her shoulders. "You know I didn't mean it like that."

She's not sure Santana does know that, especially given the way Santana just watches her, arms crossed and mouth closed as Rachel fumbles with the clasp and finally succeeds in snapping it closed.

The room is quiet, and Rachel hates it. Her heart won't stop its furious beating, and she finds she can barely look at the woman in the room with her or that beautiful bed growing cold with its rumpled sheets and ghost of sweet respite.

She's grabbing a dress from the wardrobe when she hears, "Look Rachel, I get it, okay?" Rachel swallows, but continues to try and unzip the dress with her trembling fingers. "It sucks. I know it does. And it's not like I like being in the media like this either..." Rachel pauses and forces herself to breathe, suck in the air and release it again, as she turns and offers Santana wounded, worried eyes. Santana's hair is dripping, soaking into the shoulders of her kimono. She's make up free, beautiful face bare and open, with a tentative half-smile that pulls on her upper lip. "But at least we're in this together."

There's a lilt in Santana's tone, a terrified sweetness that touches a part of Rachel that wants desperately to be left alone right now. And yet it affects her. Rachel finds her hands stilling as she observes this woman, her best friend, her lover…

"Are we?" she finds herself asking, and then swallows hard as Santana lets out a sigh and uncrosses her arms. "Santana, we haven't even really talked about what any of this means…"

"It means we like each other," Santana answers, firm and quick. After a moment, in the face of Rachel's uneasy stare, Santana's expression breaks, softens. "Enough to maybe try and face this together."

The panic that tickles the edges of Rachel's brain leaps forward like that last word is a trigger and Rachel bites her lip in conflict. "Santana… we can't just… come out like that," she manages, whispering the words like the pariahs outside can actually hear them. "Okay? Everyone's going to think –"

"Everyone already thinks that you left Troy for me," Santana interrupts, and Rachel winces. "And honestly, didn't you?"

Rachel did. She knows she did. If her words haven't proven it, she's well aware that her actions have. She's delivered promises with her mouth and her fingers, with intimate embraces and the sweetness of her laughter mingled with Santana in the stillness of dawn.

And it's the truth. A fantasy with Troy will never compare to the reality with Santana. And yet…

Rachel shudders, eyes dropping down. "JoAnn thinks we should lay low," she whispers.

"Fuck JoAnn, Rachel!" Santana huffs, and Rachel finds herself wincing. Fingers drift towards her own, digits tangling as she feels the soft skin palm hers. "Rachel," she hears, as an index finger tilts her chin up, forcing her to stare at the most beautiful and most terrifying woman in the world. Dark eyes search her own intensely. "What do you think?"

It would be so easy right now, to forget it all. Forget the reporters and the stories and the paps and to just move one step forward… bury her lips in Santana's, let every emotion come flooding back and remind her that THIS is worth fighting for. It's what her heart wants… to take comfort in what Santana is offering, to prove to her that love is enough and that they will make it.

But the fear doesn't recede. It whispers to her like a ghost, reminds her of her ambition and how DIFFICULT this journey has been… how close she's come…

And why can't they wait? Why does the choice have to happen now, with her heart beating so fast she feels like she's going to keel over? This isn't one of Quinn's obviously terrible romance novels… this is their reality.

She says the words before she can stop herself. "I think I want a career, Santana." It sinks into the space between them, and it's terrible, TERRIBLE to see how it affects Santana. Those dark brown eyes grow wounded, a millisecond before they harden and then Santana's flinching away from her, and Rachel finds herself spurred into chasing her. "Look, it's different for you, okay?" she begins, desperate for Santana to understand. "You're practically A-list! You're a rock star, and you've gotten star billing on your own movies, and you're already OUT!" The tears have begun to tumble over, stain her cheek. She wipes them away with no thought to them at all. "Me? I'm lucky to get a featured role on some USA show, and I'm fighting with Laura Benanti for every Broadway role ever, and up until now, everyone's seen me as straight- I've just been outed to entire country-"

"So what?" But Santana whirls, advancing upon her so quickly Rachel finds her excuses dying in her throat. "I wouldn't understand? Did you forget Rachel, that I was outed as a teenager to the entire fucking state thanks to YOUR fucking ex-fiance?"

Rachel's mouth is dry. She can only stand while Santana snaps at her, finger pointed accusingly. "No, I haven't."

"Or what about the fact that my ex-girlfriend released our very own sex tape when I was still a minor?" Santana continues, ignoring her tiny objection. "A sex-tape that still gets waved in my face to this day?"

Rachel hasn't forgotten. She remembers it now, every instance Santana brought it up to laugh it off, because if not someone else would bring it up first. She recalls every moment some drunken frat boy came up to her friend at work and obnoxiously asked her if she tastes as good as she looks. She remembers the defensiveness, the rudeness that Santana would have to employ just to ward off the gaggle of men who looked at her and saw a porn star; a slut.

Santana's mouth trembles, the only sign she's giving of any sort of weakness. "I was just a kid, Rachel," she whispers, and when her voice trembles Rachel finds her heart actually breaking. "But you?" she adds, a sneer emerging on that full upper lip. "You're an adult. You had every choice here. So yeah, I get that you're scared, but you're not alone in this unless you want to be…"

"I'm allowed to be SCARED, Santana."

"SO FUCKING FACE it, Rachel."

Rachel feels the shame in the flush that tickles up her neck, flushing her hot and deep. She remains rooted to the spot, eyes locked on Santana as the other woman just stares at her, searching for… whatever she needs to find.

Santana doesn't find it, because those proud shoulders fall, and those eyes grow moister still as she shakes her head in what can only be disgust, and adds "Just… grow the hell up."

For some reason, that sentence wounds her more than anything. There is no safe place here… not anymore. Santana's closed herself off, and Rachel feels the chill burning her as hotly as a searing hot flame.

"This was a mistake," she mumbles, unable to say anything else.

"Yeah I think it was."

She looks up, miserable as she looks at proud Santana, so beautiful and angry as she swivels on her bare feet and stalks out of the bedroom. Rachel's hands ball into fists. She sucks in a deep breath and tries to remind herself that Santana is hurt and angry, and has every reason to be. And honestly, Santana using her words to sting her aren't new… it's what Santana does when she's like this.

It's just never been directed at her… not this harshly… not since high school.

And since then, Rachel's become intimately familiar with the gentle pressure of her kiss, the warmth of her embrace, the sweetness of her smile and the glow of her heart…

God, Santana doesn't deserve this. She doesn't deserve anything but pride… affection…

Rachel wipes furiously at the tears that immediately trail down her cheeks. It seems fruitless. She's lost her strength and it's a struggle to finish dressing.

Santana may have left the room, but she's left her phone left behind, and when it begins buzzing, Rachel can't help but look at the screen. Blinking at her in text, signifying the incoming caller, is the name QUINN FABRAY.

The lump in Rachel's throat grows painful. Taking in a shaky but valiant breath, Rachel pushes open the bedroom door and finds Santana seated in her studio, staring motionlessly at her mixing board.

"Quinn likes you."

Santana doesn't move. When she does, it's to stare at her with obvious bewilderment. "What?"

The words taste like sand in her mouth, but Rachel struggles onward, wrapping her arms around her chest and sucking in a harsh breath for strength. "Quinn… " she tries again, unsteady as she continues. "She told me she likes you. She wants you and she's not…"

Santana's dark eyes pin her with her glare, and Rachel's sentence dies in her throat. The way Santana's stare glitters at her feels like a dagger digging into her chest. "What the hell are you trying to say, Rachel?" she asks, angrily bewildered. "You're trying to hook me up with Quinn right now?" Her tone rises, clearly losing any battle for anger that she may have had. "After having fucked me all night? In this fucking chair?"

She's yelling, and Rachel flushes miserably, glancing away for fear the tears stinging in her eyes will give her away. "That's not what I'm trying to do…" she answers, as carefully as she can. "I just… I care about you… You deserve something real and –"

"And it's not going to happen with you." Rachel's knees grow weak, and she can do nothing but breathe in a terribly painful bite of breath, watching as Santana's anger fades into something much worse. "I get it."

She broke her heart. Rachel can't stand it. "Santana," she tries, faltering forward despite herself. "Please."

But Santana is already on her feet, hands up in warning, halting her progress. "No," she snaps, face flashing with disdain. "FUCK you, Rachel."

Rachel battles herself not to crumble. She made her choice, she knows she did. And the consequence is this: Santana's anger, Santana's hurt… Santana's heartbreak manifested in her own vicious words.

"It's just… it's so stupid because you really are just another Hollywood bitch, aren't you?" The chuckle that floats out of Santana is broken and terrible to listen to. Rachel wants to open her mouth and argue – she's NOT like them, but the words get stuck at the look Santana gives her. "And the stupid thing is I knew better. I always knew you were this ambitious… one of the reasons we even bonded in the first place was because were both cutthroat bitches who would fuck over their best friend to get ahead but I never… " A noisy breath sucks in through Santana's nose as she shakes her head at her own naivety. "I never thought it'd actually happen. That you'd actually do it to me. Not after…"

Rachel loses her control and tries once again. "Santana, that's not what this is!"

"Whatever," Santana answers, a moment later. "It's your loss. You wanted a career boost? You wanted your Star cover? And your hit single?" A crooked, fake smile floats on Santana's plump lips, accented with cold, angry eyes. "You got all of it, and a lead role on Broadway to boot." Santana pretends to clap, a terrible cheer that is such a perfect mimic of the Santana Rachel knew in high school. It's devastating. "You've got a fanclub waiting outside with that car. So congrats! Enjoy that fame and success. You've earned it."

There's nothing Rachel can say. Not right now. She could get down on knee, she could beg and plead for Santana's understanding but she's well aware that at this moment, Santana only feels the pain and she's doing this, saying this, to hurt Rachel right back. Rachel knows that.

It works. Rachel's tears still blur the view of the angry woman, and her soul feels nearly crushed when Santana turns and adds, "But here's a tip, from one A-list star who has fucked so many starlets just like you that she's lost count. This shit you pulled? That doesn't make you special. Trust me, you've turned out to be just like everyone else."

It's a dramatic, cutting monologue, and it does it's job.

Rachel has no strength to fight. All she can do is painfully nod her head, and with a choked breath, whisper, "Bye, Santana."

She leaves the loft, shutting the metallic door with a clang. The sound snaps harshly through the air of the musty hallway.

* * *

She knows the pictures will be online almost immediately, scrawled with an aging Perez's increasingly bitter words that make 'Homewrecker' seem almost polite. Every detail of her appearance will be discussed and dissected, and Rachel knows that even though she was literally within the Paparazzi's lenses for less than a minute, she does not look good.

Dark glasses cover her eyes, and a Yankee's hat buries most of her forehead, but her mouth is tight and her hair is wild. She's wearing a scarf but she's sure that someone will notice the marks on her neck. The media will see what they need to, and what they see is a cheating Broadway diva who has pushed her boyfriend into a relapse by falling into the arms of known lesbian heartbreaker.

Of course what the paparazzi won't notice are the way her hands shake as she settles into the back of the sedan. Rachel is thankful for the tinted black windows as she presses her palms harshly to her mouth, trying desperately to breathe even though each painful inhalation feels like shards of glass crackling within her.

They don't notice the hot tears that slip out from underneath the dark lenses or the way the driver glances back at her and presses his mouth together sympathetically, clearing his throat and doing his best to drive her away from the madness.

"There's tissues in the side pocket right there, ma'am," he tells her, and then curses at a particularly enthusiastic guy with a camera who tries to keep the driver from going by standing right in the middle of his blind spot. The photographer tries to snap pictures through his window, hoping to get a shot of her in her back seat.

Rachel doesn't care.

They only see what they want to see, and for that Rachel is grateful. Better to be seen as a heartbreaker than for them to witness her own personal heartbreak and breakdown.

_End chapter_


End file.
